


The Inceptors' Guild

by Brangwen



Category: Inception (2010), World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crack Crossover, Demons, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Guild politics, M/M, Multiple Pov, Noisy Sex, Voyeurism, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-03 16:24:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1072634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brangwen/pseuds/Brangwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is a Night Elf Druid.  Eames is a Worgen Rogue.  Cats and dogs are supposed to fight, but these two prefer to snuggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Druid (Returning)

**Author's Note:**

> Something in the back of my mind said "why don't you take the tropes you like least about this fandom and write a story using ALL OF THEM AT ONCE?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Game mechanics and terms of art are linked, for those not familiar with World of Warcraft. They're not necessary to follow the storyline, but they may help clarify the setup and character backgrounds. For those who are familiar, most of the gameplay mistakes are deliberate on my part.

Arthur feels an immediate sense of relief as soon as he spies the slate-grey tiles of the low roof of the [guild](http://www.wowwiki.com/Guild) hall just across the canal.  He's been too far away for far too long, undertaking a seemingly never-ending series of tasks for the Guardians of Hyjal and the Cenarion Circle and collecting hides for a new leather armor set.   Although he's always happy to spend time learning from Malfurion, and is quite pleased with his new armor, he's tired of being alone and looking forward to spending some time in the company of his guild -- one of them in particular.

He soars over the bridge and down the block, shimmering out of his swift-flight [travel form](http://www.wowwiki.com/Shapeshift#Shapeshifting) and into his [natural form](http://www.wowwiki.com/Night_elf) just before reaching the guild hall door.  The spell reverts automatically any time he goes indoors, but Arthur prefers his form shifts to be under his conscious control.  He removes his helm and unconsciously runs a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair, putting it in order and tucking it behind his long, slender ears before casting the minor cantrip needed to open the door.

Inside the hall, a fire is crackling in the greatroom, and the welcome smell of roasting meat fills the air.  Yusuf's short, stocky form is silhouetted in the firelight as he leans into the hearth, basting a hunk of meat on the spit.  His miniature bandicoon is splayed out belly-up next to him, basking in the fire's warmth.

A familiar pair of brunette pigtails is barely visible over the top of the settee nearest the fire, and a ball of floating magelight hovers next to it. At the sound of the door opening, Ariadne scrambles up and stands tiptoe to peer over the back of the settee, her huge green eyes alight. "Arthur!" she exclaims happily.  "We were just wondering when you'd arrive.  Come here, sit.  Did you get the cloak you were looking for?"

"Hi, Ari," he says, returning her smile.  The [tiny](http://www.wowwiki.com/Gnome_%28playable%29) [mage's ](http://www.wowwiki.com/Mage) enthusiasm is always infectious.  "Yes, I got it.  The stamina increase is pretty incredible.  Let me know if you're thinking of going out on any [quests](http://www.wowwiki.com/Quest) soon, I'd be happy to try [tanking](http://www.wowwiki.com/Tank_%28game_term%29) with it." 

He drops his packs on the table and lifts his staff from its holder on his back, resting it carefully in the weapon rack next to the door.  He twirls, a little dramatically, to show her the cloak, then perches on the edge of the settee, careful not to dislodge the numerous cogs and gears Ariadne has strewn about her on the cushions.  She's tinkering with something that looks, to Arthur's untrained eye, fairly innocuous; at least, there are no powders or poisons involved, as there sometimes are with her engineering devices. 

"Yusuf, how's it going?" he asks the guild's [priest ](http://www.wowwiki.com/Priest) (and master chef). "That smells great."

The [dwarf](http://www.wowwiki.com/Dwarf) grins, white teeth bright against his golden skin and dark beard.  "Trying to figure out what would go well with the dragon for dinner.  Did you bring me back any Vile Purple Fungus?" 

Arthur reflexively makes a sour face.  "Yes, they're in my pack. But please, no more mushrooms, at least for one day." 

"I understand," Yusuf responds, laughing a little.  "How about some Spicy Fried Herring, then?  And there's a cask of fresh Kungaloosh in the pantry." 

"Here, you can finish my mug of the Kungaloosh -- you look like you could use it," Ariadne offers, and he accepts it with thanks.  "You're lucky you got in today instead of yesterday," she adds.  "It was Spiced Worm Burger night."

"You don't like what I provide, you can cook for yourself," Yusuf says serenely, and she sticks her little tongue out at him.

Arthur smiles, feels his body relaxing under the influence of the warmth of the fire and the familiar repartee. "Fish always sounds good." 

"Cats and fish.  You're so predictable," Yusuf notes, and Ariadne giggles.  Arthur shrugs.  It's true, he's not going to deny it. 

"Bears, too," he points out mildly, and looks toward the private rooms. "Is he...?"

"Out and about," Yusuf answers.  "Should be back soon, though.  He seemed to know you were coming home today, kept pacing at the door all morning.  I got tired of watching him and suggested he go raid one of the bandit camps in Elwynn to settle his nerves."

Arthur can't help but smile at that.  At least he won't have to wait long.

Yusuf, an inveterate gossip, spends the next several minutes filling him in on the latest Dom-and-Mal drama, with Ariadne piping up to correct or augment as needed, as her tiny hands deftly work gears and wires into place.  Yusuf rarely leaves the guild hall -- he has a domestic streak to outrival any housewife -- and no matter how many times he tells Dom he's not that kind of priest, Dom seems to view Yusuf as his personal confessor. All of which means that Yusuf knows as much about Dom and Mal's relationship as they do, and he's never shy about sharing what he knows.

It's good to be back, and as the second-in-command Arthur does need to know what's going on with Dom and Mal, because their dysfunction more often than not impacts the rest of the guild, but he's only partly engaged in the conversation. He remains on edge until he hears the hall's door open behind him and a pair of daggers click into place in the weapons rack, and a ... sniff.  And then a deeper, harsher sniff, lower to the ground. 

Knowing what's coming next, he sits stock still, not turning his head.  Not two seconds later, a howl rings out, eerie and joyous and appallingly loud in the small room.  Claws scrabble excitedly on the polished stone floor, and then a long, very wet tongue drags up the back of Arthur's neck and over his cheek and a cold nose presses itself briefly against his ear.  His attacker pants delightedly, enormous front paws balanced on the back of Arthur's shoulders as he tries to lick Arthur's entire face, while Arthur ducks and tries to protect his skin from the onslaught of canine saliva.

"Dammit, Eames," Ariadne shouts, covering her ears and leaping up to glare at him. "No howling in the hall!" 

The paws disappear from Arthur's back, and the panting ceases abruptly, replaced by a deep, deliciously rich, clearly overjoyed male voice.  "My apologies, Ariadne.  I was just -- bloody hell, Arthur, you're back, you're back."  A pair of muscular arms in a rough woolen shirt replace the heavy, hairy paws, wrapping tightly around Arthur's shoulders.  Arthur finally turns around, wiping his face with his sleeve. 

Eames looks like any other human man in this form, albeit a very attractive and (just now) very happy one, but there's a suggestion of wagging in his posture still, and Arthur knows perfectly well that Eames is just as content to lick him in this form as in his [worgen](http://www.wowwiki.com/Worgen_%28playable%29) form.  His blue-grey eyes are fond, and his lush mouth beams.  Arthur wants to kiss it, but instead he stands to greet Eames properly, with a firm embrace and just a quick brush of his lips over Eames' cheek, where the soft scruff of his unshaven beard is the same deep amber color as the fur in his other form.

Eames, impatient and shameless, wants nothing to do with proper public greetings; instead, he grasps Arthur's hand and starts toward his -- well,  _their_ \-- private room. 

"Wait, Arthur, I haven't even got to the best part," Yusuf objects, before they can even take two steps.

"You _have_ to hear this," Ariadne agrees. 

So Arthur sits, again.  Eames sinks gracefully to sit cross-legged at his feet, resting his head on Arthur's knee.  Arthur strokes Eames' hair and face and gently kneads his shoulder with one hand, feeling his own travel-tension begin to dissipate with the comforting warmth of Eames' body against his legs. 

"So after all that, Dom left for a two week solo quest.  Apparently Mal had been making Shallax warm her feet at night while Dom was gone," Yusuf continues.  "He got back three days ago and tried to slip into bed without waking her.  This was a mistake, because he'd spent the weeks he was away growing out a beard, and he didn't know the [imp](http://www.wowwiki.com/Imp_%28warlock_minion%29) was in there, asleep on Mal's feet.  Shallax didn't recognize the bearded stranger trying to climb into Mal's bed, and he popped off a fireball at Dom before Mal woke up.  I was able to heal the damage to his skin, but now Dom has no beard, and also no eyebrows."

Ariadne tries to stifle a laugh.  "The worst part is, of course Dom was furious, but Mal got pissy because Dom yelled at Shallax" -- Arthur closes his eyes and shakes his head; Mal doesn't let _anyone_ interfere with her [demons](http://www.wowwiki.com/Minion) \-- "and she let him know exactly what she thought about that.  Now she isn't speaking to him."

Eames' howl of laughter rings out over Yusuf's deep chuckle and the trill of Ariadne's giggles. 

"So, where is he sleeping?  And where is he now?  And Mal?" Arthur wants to know, automatically assuming his role as second-in-command; if Dom is incapacitated or absent, Arthur will have to pick up Dom's duties, not to mention smooth things over with Mal. 

"We put him in your room, darling," Eames murmurs.  "You'll just have to share with me until Mal forgives him."  His hand steals out and encircles Arthur's ankle.  Arthur doesn't mind; he's hardly slept in his own room since they got the guild hall, using it primarily for storage.  He spends his nights curled up in Eames' bed, whether Eames is there or not. 

Yusuf peers at the elaborate mechanical clock that had been Ariadne's contribution to the greatroom.  "Dom took the [tram](http://www.wowwiki.com/Deeprun_Tram) over to Ironforge to pick up a new smithing recipe, he should be back tonight.  Mal... who knows.  When she left she looked like she was in a mood to pick a fight, and she didn't ask anyone to go with her."

"Except Phoros," Ariadne adds.

"Well, yes, of _course_ Phoros," Yusuf agrees. 

Arthur instinctively shivers at the thought.  Phoros is Mal's [Felguard](http://www.wowwiki.com/Felguard_%28warlock_minion%29) demon.  He's brutish, ugly, foul-tempered, powerfully muscled, and extremely protective of Mal.  More than once, Arthur has seen the two of them decimate multiple mobs in less than a minute, Mal's face alight with unholy glee as Phoros whirls and slices with that gigantic wicked axe of his and hellfire drips and flares around them both. 

Arthur likes Mal, but sometimes he's a little creeped out by her closeness with her demon minions and her strange affinity for spells of corruption and self-immolation. 

There is a brief silence, and then Yusuf shakes his head slightly.  "Ariadne, would you please fetch my spice bag from the pantry?  The meal will be ready shortly." 

"No, Ari's got her hands full.  I'll do it," Arthur offers, before the indignant protest evident in Ariadne's face can make its way out of her little rosebud mouth.  He reluctantly taps Eames' shoulder so he can stand up, but Eames stands, too.

"And I will help Arthur," he announces, trailing Arthur into the combined pantry/dining hall area. 

"Oh, here we go," Arthur hears Yusuf mutter, before he raises his voice again.  "Bring me the spices _before_ you get to sniffing each other's arses, please, Eames." 

Arthur snorts, but doesn't respond.  When he finds the bag and turns around, Eames looks a little shamefaced.  "I do want to sniff you," Eames admits in a low voice. 

"And I you.  I've missed you.  Here, give this" -- Arthur tosses the spice bag to him -- "to Yusuf, and then get back here." 

The problem with Stormwind is that, unlike Darnassus, it's a fully built-out, densely populated city.  There are no convenient wooded areas to shelter couples seeking some privacy outside of a shared dwelling, and humans take a somewhat dimmer view of public erotic displays than the more sensible, nature-attuned night elves.  This means that, like it or not, the guildmates are often privy to the more intimate aspects of each other's relationships.  Yusuf and Ariadne, and Dom and Mal and Saito, for that matter, have witnessed enough Arthur-Eames reunions to know that mutual ass-sniffing is an important prelude to extremely noisy, guild-hall-clearing sex, and that Ariadne's ban on howling inside the hall doesn't apply once the door to Eames' room closes behind them.

Arthur isn't going to let it go that far just yet -- the roasting dragon flank smells increasingly tantalizing, and he's hungry -- but the feral part of his nature is becoming increasingly insistent that he smell his partner, re-establish that connection, before he can calm down and get through a meal.

By the time Eames trots back into the pantry, form-shifted, his tail wagging and his tongue lolling happily out of his mouth, Arthur has shimmered into cat form and cloaked himself in shadows.  He knows he isn't fooling Eames, whose nose can unerringly lead him to Arthur in pitch blackness, but it gives him the extra second of surprise he needs to spring at Eames and knock him to the ground.  And then the tussle is on, both of them gentling their deadly sharp teeth and Arthur velveting his claws, but using all of their strength and agility to strive for dominance until Eames has Arthur pinned, belly up in submission. 

He deliberately licks Arthur's face again as Arthur mewls in protest, then his great jaws close on Arthur's throat.  Arthur deliberately stretches his head back, baring the most vulnerable part of his neck with the utmost trust.  Eames bites in, very gently, then backs off and gravely sniffs Arthur's hindquarters.  He sneaks in a lick or three while he's at it, until Arthur squirms and lightly slaps Eames' foreleg with his tail.  At that, Eames allows Arthur to roll onto his feet again, and presents his own happily wagging rump for Arthur's inspection.  A few deep whiffs -- yes, that's Eames, that's Arthur's Eames, his mate -- and Arthur purrs loudly, butting his head against Eames' bony hip and rubbing the scent gland in his cheek firmly over Eames' tawny fur. 

Satisfied, he switches back to his kaldorei form, and Eames follows suit, a normal human man again.  Arthur bends to kiss him thoroughly and to just hold him for a moment, to solidify their reconnection.  When they break apart, the last of his weariness and irritability has faded away, and he feels truly at home again. 

He cups Eames' face with a fond hand, looks deep into his blue-grey eyes, and says "I need to sort through my bags and get some uncured skins into the workroom before Ari smells them out there and pitches a fit."

Eames wrinkles his nose.  "Romantic as ever, darling."  But he releases Arthur and follows him back to the greatroom, where he picks up his own bags and begins rifling through them. 

Arthur dumps his bags and packs onto the floor and begins making piles: things to keep, things to give away or trade, things to sell (or rather, things to give to Saito to sell on Arthur's behalf). 

"Yusuf, I have some herbs for you to go through in that pack there," Eames says, and tosses it toward where Yusuf sits cross-legged on the floor next to the hearth.  "Let me know what you don't need and I'll take the rest to Saito."

Yusuf looks up, pleased and surprised.  "Ta."  He continues grinding spices for the fish batter.

"What did you bring me?" Ariadne demands. 

Eames pulls out some rough lumps of what look like rock.  "I picked up some random bits of ore from one of the bandit camps, I'm not sure what kind. Dom can probably turn them into something useful for you."  She jumps up and -- well, if Arthur is going to be honest, _waddles_ is really the only word for the way gnomes walk -- to the table, climbs onto a chair, and examines the dull objects.  Beaming, she holds her arms out to Eames for a hug, and he obligingly bends down and wraps an arm around her little shoulders. 

"Thanks! Hey, I'm sorry I yelled about the howling." 

"Not at all; I apologize for forgetting.  I was just --"

"I know," she says, with a soft, wistful smile. "You have your Arthur back."

Arthur, meanwhile, has swiftly sorted through his uncured skins and scraps of leather, and set aside various items he's picked up that he'd thought his guildmates would find useful. 

"Eames, would you mind unlocking these?" he asks, indicating four small, intricately worked boxes. 

"What do I get out of it?" Eames wants to know.  He'll do it for free, of course, but he likes to bargain; and Arthur likes to indulge him, so he has a bribe ready. 

"There's a pattern for an enhanced [stealth](http://www.wowwiki.com/Stealth_%28mechanic%29) jerkin in the auction house right now, and I'll have enough cured hides in a few days to make it for you -- if you're nice to me."

"Oh, for that, love, I'll be _very_ nice to you indeed."  He gives Arthur a saucy wink, and, whistling, fishes his lockpicks from a hidden pocket in his trews and begins working on the boxes. 

Yusuf mumbles something under his breath, and Arthur's long, sensitive ears can almost but not quite make it out.  It doesn't matter, though, he can guess the subject.  He knows their guildmates would prefer that he and Eames kept their sex life just a little less public, and he does try to be sensitive to their concerns.  It's just not in either of their natures to keep it hidden, and they slip up from time to time -- more often when they haven't seen each other for a long while. 

It would be nice, he thinks, to have more time with Eames some day, to put the pressures of the guild and the Arch Druids on hold and just _be_.  He has a small house in [Darnassus,](http://www.wowwiki.com/Darnassus) and his mind has been turning more and more to thoughts of wintering there, just the two of them for months at a time, away from Dom's ambition and Mal's temper and the stone and mortar of Stormwind, the endless dreary day to day tasks involved in running the guild and recruiting new members. 

It tires Arthur, but he owes Dom; he's prospered since teaming up with Dom, has ready access to Saito's wealth and the company of his guildmates and Dom's own considerable expertise, which he willingly and freely shares with Arthur and which is responsible in large part for Arthur's status and reputation.  Without Dom, Arthur would still be struggling, solo, with crappy [armor](http://www.wowwiki.com/Armor) and substandard [weapons, ](http://www.wowwiki.com/Weapon)sleeping in the rough or in shabby inns when he could afford it.  He wouldn't have seen so much of the world, wouldn't have met Eames, wouldn't have been able to develop to his full potential the way he has.  He's grateful to Dom, he is.  He's just ... tired. 

He totes his smelly pile of hides to their shared workroom.  Ariadne, who is a Frost Mage, put a permanent chilling spell on the room after That One Time Eames Forgot About The Mammoth Meat.  They use it to store meat, uncured leather, Yusuf's flasks and potions, Ariadne's blasting powder and dynamite, and herbs, and there's a large, sturdy, scarred table for working their various crafts.  He dumps the skins on the table to work on later that night, or maybe the next day, when he's feeling less tired and grungy. 

He'd spent as much time as possible in his various animal forms during his travels, and he's better able to groom himself in those forms than to bathe and wash his clothes as an elf, but he's still feeling dusty and munged, not to mention sore.  He thinks again, longingly, of the clear pools of Darnassus, including that one fed by a hot spring...  but thinking about it isn't going to get him clean.  He'll just have to haul and heat his bathwater like any other denizen of Stormwind.

Yusuf has just portioned out the dragon flank and fried fish, together with draughts of ale, when [Mal](http://www.wowwiki.com/Warlock) returns, sweeping imperiously into the hall.  By popular demand, she dismisses her demons while in the common rooms -- Yusuf had agitated for the [succubus](http://www.wowwiki.com/Succubus_%28warlock_minion%29%22) to be permitted at the table, but had been soundly voted down by the rest of them -- but her bearing manages to convey the impression that she's accompanied by a retinue nonetheless.  She is a striking woman; her elaborately embroidered, midnight blue gown and the dark rubies in her rings and necklace draw attention to her blood-red lips and wide, pale blue eyes, and she holds her head like a queen.  Looking at her, it's easy to forget that she grew up in the Shattrath City orphanage, a refugee of the Outland Wars. It's only her slight accent (bewitching though it may be) that marks her as being foreign-born.

Without asking, Yusuf serves up another plate for Mal and pours her a glass of red wine.  She pauses on the way to her seat, and leans down and presses a cool kiss to Arthur's cheek.  Her dark brown hair swings forward, silky on his neck, before she straightens again and takes her place next to Ariadne.  "It's good to have you back," she says quietly.  "Your Eames has been moping about and behaving very unpleasantly in your absence." 

Eames' lip curls, and his clear grey eyes flash worg-yellow.  "At least I haven't been waking people up shrieking curses at all hours of the night," he says sullenly. 

"Perhaps not," Mal agrees.  "But I suspect you will be keeping us all awake this evening."  She smiles sweetly, and takes a sip of wine.

"It's good to see you again, too," Arthur tells Mal, ignoring the innuendo.  He puts a pacifying hand on Eames' thigh under the table, and after a moment Eames' face and eyes relax again.  "Were you questing today?"

To his relief, she accepts the change of subject.  "Phoros and I spent the day in the battlegrounds.  We received a great deal of honor and slew many boorish, loudmouthed warriors." 

Arthur sighs internally.  Apparently she's still pissed off -- Mal always waxes eloquent about the crudeness and thuggish nature of [melee](http://www.wowwiki.com/Melee) classes whenever she's upset with Dom.  "Sounds like a good day," he ventures. 

"It served its purpose," she acknowledges.  Then Ariadne deliberately asks Yusuf what quests he's planning next, and a good-natured debate arises as to whether Arthur (in bear form) or Saito (a [Death Knight](http://www.wowwiki.com/Death_Knight)) would be a better tank when the guild travels to Shadowfang Keep.  Arthur demurs; he's still not completely comfortable in his tanking skills, no matter how much Dom instructs him.  Eames is vociferous in his support, though, and Ariadne agrees with Eames, while Mal and, surprisingly, Yusuf favor Saito.  The rest of the meal passes without further unpleasantness. 

After he's eaten his fill, Arthur pushes his trencher away and leans over and murmurs in Eames' ear. "I was thinking of bathing.  Would you help me haul some water?" 

Eames' face lights up, recognizing the invitation for what it is, but his tone is deliberately casual when he responds.  "I suppose so.  I should probably have a wash myself, now that you mention it." 

Ariadne and Yusuf glance at each other, but say nothing.  Mal, who has a sometimes aggressive indifference to social niceties, calmly admonishes them to "not fuck too loudly, please, I am very tired tonight." 

Eames merely laughs, and gets up from the table to find the water buckets, grasping Arthur's hand and drawing him up beside him.  "I haven't seen Arthur for a whole month, Mal.  I'm making no promises."


	2. The Rogue (Sleeping)

Eames can't stop wagging.  He sternly orders his tail to subside, not to make him look like a brainless puppy, but as soon as his attention is elsewhere, it starts up again.  It's the "Arthur's home, Arthur's touching me, Arthur's in my bed" wag, softly _tock-tocking_ back and forth to announce to anyone watching that Eames is one half of a whole again. 

It even wags faintly in his sleep, as Arthur's lithe feline body stretches and shifts against Eames in their nest of soft hides (they learned early on that down cushions and woven blankets, while preferred for their humanoid forms, won't last a night between two sets of claws). 

As Arthur's absences go, this one was relatively brief.  While Eames resents anything and everything that takes Arthur away from him, he recognizes that Arthur has responsibilities to the Cenarion Circle as well as to the guild.  Arthur takes his obligations very seriously -- it's part of his Arthurness -- and if the Arch Druids call on him to heal the land or defend a fragile ecosystem, he goes, no questions asked. 

And Eames?  Eames holds his tongue.  He's only grateful that Arthur isn't high enough in the druidic hierarchy to have to spend time in the Emerald Dream.  Worgen are long-lived, it's part of the curse, but Eames doesn't know how he would cope if Arthur were to be taken from him for decades or centuries instead of weeks or months.  He can't bear to think about it.

Without Arthur, Eames is untethered, unmoored, his heart severed from him and set loose in the world where he can't protect it, can only hope it comes back to him safe and whole.  He hides it well, laughing with Yusuf, teasing Ariadne, poring over tactical manuals in the Royal Library, volunteering for missions with SI:7, but inside there is an empty place that aches constantly for Arthur.

The depth and breadth of that emptiness, that ache, frighten him sometimes. He can't conceive of a world without Arthur in it, or what he might do if Arthur is ever injured beyond his own or Yusuf's healing abilities.  Eames would go with him, protect him, lay down his own life for Arthur's if he was permitted to, but Arthur won't allow it.  So Eames frets, and waits, and yearns for Arthur, separate and fragmented and obedient.

He watches Mal and Dom together, honestly puzzled by how they can be so hostile, so jarring with each other. They're in love, there's no question about it, but they can't seem to stop shattering one another with misunderstandings and unintended slights and defensive reactions, over and over again.  He wants to shake them, tell them to treasure what they have, that their time together is a gift they take too lightly and tread on too carelessly.  But here, too, he holds his tongue. 

It's not Mal's fault, or at least, not only Mal's fault.  True, Mal can be arrogant and distrusting and acerbic and downright cruel at times.  But Dom exacerbates these traits by indulging in cycles of worshipping her, then visibly tolerating her flaws like a martyr, and then exploding unpredictably and poking her in the most sensitive and undefended areas of her psyche, and he doesn't take care to do it in private, either.  Dom isn't stupid, exactly, but he's always been over-optimistic and naive about women, too cocky about his own abilities and too self-centered.  It makes him a good guild leader and a good warrior, but even Eames, who's never been very interested in women, can see that Mal needs much more careful handling than Dom can provide.  

He knows Dom dislikes him, that Dom thinks he's crude and resents his diversion of Arthur's time and attention, that Dom sees Eames as a threat to his own authority.  Eames dislikes Dom partly because Dom is a shallow, smarmy git, but primarily because Dom still holds a substantial measure of Arthur's loyalty.  While it doesn't take away from the loyalty Arthur bears Eames, it's an ever-present little unhappy itch in his mind, which Eames does his best to conceal and avoid thinking about.  When he thinks that perhaps someday he might ask Arthur to give up his position, retire from the guild and simply go off adventuring on their own -- or maybe go back to Gilneas and restore his family's holdings, help patch together the broken pieces of Gilnean culture and economy -- he has an uneasy feeling that Arthur could say no, and it would be because of what he believes he owes Dom.  To Eames, Arthur doesn't owe Dom anything anymore; any debt, to the extent there ever was one, has long since been paid.  But he suspects Arthur doesn't see it that way.

So Eames doesn't ask. 

And while Arthur's here, Eames is just going to hold onto him as tight as he can.

It had been a delight sinking into the hot water together, Arthur leaning against the wooden wall of the tub, Eames supine against his chest with his head dropped back against Arthur's pale shoulder.  They'd just relaxed silently skin-to-skin for a little while, feeling one another's heartbeat, breathing in their combined scent, communing without words among the wisps of steam. A deep peace radiated from Arthur, and Eames luxuriated in it, knowing Arthur could likewise sense his relief and delight at Arthur's return.

Arthur had stroked his face, his fingertips just ghosting over Eames's skin, tracing the contours of temple and cheekbone and lips until Eames shivered at the touch.  He pulled Arthur's hand to his mouth to press kisses in his palm, and then arched his neck to look up and back at him.  Arthur's lovely dark angular eyes locked with Eames', and he lowered his face, pressing his lips to Eames' gently and then more firmly.  They exchanged long, lazy, open-mouthed kisses, Eames passive and pliant atop Arthur's tall, slender body.

When the sex play began, it was slow and languorous:  Arthur's hands winding into Eames' hair, Eames stroking Arthur's pale, leanly muscled thigh; Arthur's fingers skimming over Eames' taut nipples, Eames rolling his arse against Arthur's cock.  Soon, though, the delicious heat between them demanded more direct contact, and Eames found himself turning astride Arthur, their hard lengths jostling in the deep water.  Arthur wrapped one of his big hands around both of them, and Eames thrust gently against him, building up a slow maddening friction as he leaned forward to kiss Arthur again. 

He didn't know how long they rocked there together, only that his senses were flooded with Arthur, the searing sweetness of pressing all of his flesh against Arthur's, the taste of Arthur's mouth and the sound of his deep breaths as they became less and less controlled.  He did dimly realize that he was whispering Arthur's name, and endearments and broken senseless phrases. _"My darling."  "My heart."  "Bloody fucking... incredible, Arthur, fuck."_ And then he couldn't hold back anymore and let himself thrust harder, faster, Arthur right there with him, his hand wrapped around Arthur's head, panting into his mouth as his body stuttered and emptied itself into Arthur's hand.  It took just a few strokes more for Arthur to follow suit, and they rested, taking deep shuddering breaths, still pressed together. 

They'd rinsed with clean water and dried themselves, donned loose robes and sluiced the tub, then locked the door to Eames' room and began all over again, rough and tender and finally unrestrained, their shouts and groans echoing around the tiny room, heedless to what anyone might overhear.  Arthur bit a series of dark purple marks into Eames' neck, and slid two oiled fingers into him, opening him with a good twisting stretch; Eames' hand landed in hard sharp smacks on Arthur's pale delectable bare arse before his clever mouth sucked Arthur to full hardness and then over the edge.

Sated and sleepy, after, they'd shifted forms, groomed each other clean with long rough tongues and nestled together the way they prefer to sleep: furry belly against furry belly, all eight limbs entangled, Arthur's sleek head curled under Eames' jaw, Eames panting warm and steady over Arthur's neck as Arthur purrs them both to sleep.

Lying now in the faint light of early dawn, his husky canine body wrapped around Arthur's sinuous, dappled feline form, Eames reminds himself how lucky he is.  Had the Cataclysm not occurred, had the Greymane Wall not come down, he never would have met Arthur.  Events that have meant devastation and ruin for much of Azeroth have led Eames to discover his other half, his heart.  Even the curse, the worgen curse that nearly took Eames' life, has strengthened his relationship with Arthur, allowing them to run and fight tirelessly in their alternate forms for days on end, an experience neither of them had ever known they wanted until they tried it together.  Arthur completes him in more ways than Eames could have ever imagined, and Eames isn't going to let Dom's pettiness or the Cenarion Circle's directives make him forget or fail to appreciate what he has. 

He licks the back of Arthur's head and nuzzles his snout more firmly against Arthur's warm silky scruff, and the tip of Arthur's tail twitches before twining sleepily around Eames' paw. 

At that, Eames' own tail takes up its refrain again, _tock-tock_ : _I love, I'm loved, I'm whole._


	3. The Warlock (Ruminating)

Mal loves fire.  It's beautiful and ethereal and destructive and ugly all at once, much like Mal herself.  She loves watching flames, whether they're tame little licks in a fireplace or the lava-like cascade of hellfire that she sometimes summons to flare out in a deadly circle around her body, damaging her attackers while she endures the same torment. 

The white searing heat of the flames on her body never gets easier; one cannot build callouses to withstand fire, one's nerves shriek and incandesce the same way the hundredth time as they did the first. The only thing that makes it tolerable, she has found, is acceptance.  More than acceptance, really, although she will not tell this to anyone.  She has to want it, to really open herself to the almost unimaginable ecstasy of suffering the fire kindles in her, and then she can bear it, can stand laughing and triumphant in the very center of a column of fire as her enemies burn and shrivel and die screaming around her. 

Most people don't understand.  Dom, dear stupid literal Dom, doesn't.  He never has.  It hurts him to see her immolate herself.  He flinches from her spells of corruption and rot and felfire, is pained to see her calmly burn enemies alive, shrinks away from her beloved demons.

For all that, he _is_ dear to her, though.  Something in her is helplessly drawn to him and wants to be good to him, soothe him, care for him. 

This confuses her.  She has spent all of her life detached, wary, unable to trust anyone except her minions, walking dark paths and making unforgivable sacrifices.  Today she is implacable, stern, as she siphons the souls of her victims, storing their life energy to fuel her spells and curses and to heal herself and her demon companions.

Caring for Dom, being someone he can depend on, anticipating his needs and ministering to them, contemplating how he might want her to behave in a situation before she jumps in with both feet -- it's still strange and uncomfortable for her, like wearing someone else's ill-fitting clothes.

They argue a lot. 

At first she had intended only that he share her bed.  She'd known he was attracted to her, and that he wouldn't approach her, so she had issued a stark invitation.  Well, an order, really.  He'd followed her to her room, stammering that he was willing to "take it slow" and that he "respected her quite a lot."  Once she'd shut him up, though, he'd proved a surprisingly enthusiastic and athletic lover, and she'd found herself going back to him again, and then again, and then allowing him to stay the night. 

When he'd asked her to join his guild, her initial reaction had been to flee, but she'd come back days later, uncharacteristically hesitant, and asked if he'd meant it.  He'd introduced her to Arthur and Eames, Ariadne and Yusuf, and within a week it was as if she'd been a part of them always, settling in as the darkly outrageous provacateur of the group.  Just a little scary and unpredictable, but _their_ scary and unpredictable provacateur.  The men didn't hit on her (she'd picked up on Arthur and Eames' relationship immediately, and with relief), Ariadne was friendly but didn't try to have girly bonding time with her (Mal does not _do_ girly), Yusuf was an excellent cook, Saito ensured they were all well-funded (Mal has never had this much ready cash in her life). Further, they were all consummate professionals on the battlefield, which in the end is all she'd ever thought she'd need from a guild, anyway. 

She is not through punishing Dom for his misstep the other night.  He should have known that Shallax wouldn't recognize him.  The imp's facial recognition skills are limited and had Dom even once _listened_ to Mal, he would have remembered that before trying to sneak into her bed (it was Dom's bed too, technically, but Shallax didn't see it that way.)  And because he'd been so foolish, so unthinking, he had not only angered her by getting himself injured, but then he had enraged her by criticizing her beloved minion.  No-one disciplines Mal's demons except Mal, not even the man she (reluctantly, timidly, exasperatingly) loves. 

No, he will just have to sleep in Arthur's room for a few more days, until she decides to graciously accept his apologies and allow him back into her boudoir.  She is rather looking forward to the make-up sex already.  


	4. The Priest (Confessing)

Yusuf may be a priest, but that doesn't mean he has to be celibate.

"She wants it, Mal.  I can tell."

She shakes her head decidedly.  "No, Yusuf.  She does not."

"But she _looks_ at me," he protests.  "She can't keep her eyes off my cock."

Mal finally puts down her book, looks him in the eye.  "She looks at everyone's cock.  She is a succubus. That is what she does.  But she will not go near you, and I will not ask her to, because you stink of the Light.  Go and find some thick-bodied dwarf maiden to sate your appetites.  Go give little Ariadne the thrill of her life."

Yusuf groans despondently.  "Ari only wants Arthur, and I don't shit where I eat, anyway."

Mal eyes his round belly.  "You look like you eat everywhere and anywhere," she says heartlessly, and goes back to reading her book. 

He turns to leave, but pauses. "Mal."

"I said no."

"This isn't about Sapira.  I've been wanting to ask you about something else, actually."

Her wide, pale blue eyes peek over the rim of her book.  "You have fifteen seconds, and then I shall ignore you utterly."

Yusuf closes the door, looks directly at Mal, and takes a deep breath.  "I've been thinking of becoming a Shadowpriest."

That gets her attention.  "Oh, Dom will not be happy," she warns.  "What has come over you?  You are one of the best healers in the city.  You are guaranteed a place in any guild you want to join.  If you do this, you will be shunned." 

"I'm just..." he's having trouble looking her in the eye. "Healing is dull. Sometimes I don't even get to see what we're fighting, I'm concentrating so hard on keeping Dom alive. The rest of you seem to be having more fun."

Mal _tssssks_.  "If you are doing damage, you are just one of many. And you will not be the best.  No-one will want you on a quest with them. And what of your precious Light?"

Yusuf closes his eyes.  His round, ordinarily cheerful face is bleak.  "Mal, the Light hasn't called to me for months.  I speak to It and It is silent.  I can still heal, but I can't commune with the Light when I do.  Maybe I'm meant to go shadow, I don't know, but I can't go on existing in this ... limbo." 

Her face becomes thoughtful.  "I have never walked in the Light," she says softly, "so I do not know what it is to lose It.  I do know that it is possible to walk in the shadows and thrive.  If you accept the shadows, you may indeed find that you are meant to dwell there."  Her voice hardens.  "But you will be outcast, Yusuf.  The guild is not large enough to support a priest who does not heal.  You will be replaced." 

"I thought maybe you could put in a good word on my behalf," he suggests, but she shakes her head.

"He does not listen to me about guild matters, and he resents me sticking my nose in.  You should go to Arthur, if you want someone else to approach Dom for you.  But I do not think Arthur will be happy to have to take your place."  

He hadn't thought that one through, but he realizes that she's right.  Arthur is too polite to say so, and he's pragmatic enough to understand that someone has to be their backup healer, but he doesn't enjoy it at all. He'd rather be with Eames, in the thick of battle, a blur of snarling teeth and rending claws. Yusuf sighs.

Mal watches him shrewdly.  "You stand to lose a great deal, and gain little, if you do this.  Is it really so intolerable, when you have so many good things here?"

"I don't know," he admits. He just knows he can't continue as he is now, and turning shadow had seemed to offer the most expedient solution to the problem.

They both hear the sluiceway from the bathing room open (it makes a distinctive gurgle, as it spills the water from their tub into a pipe leading to the canal), and he knows things are going to get noisy in short order -- Arthur and Eames are unrestrained in their lovemaking, and he's not particularly interested in listening in.  "I'll think it over," he tells Mal, and opens her door to leave again. 

"Yusuf," she calls behind him, and he stops. There's a weird light in her eyes.   "Ariadne desires Arthur?  Truly?"

He chuckles.  "Just watch her when she's near him. I thought she'd explode with delight this afternoon when he came home, and then she nearly bit Eames' head off when he howled -- you know how he does." 

Mal nods thoughtfully.  "Yes, I have seen it.  I did not know this.  Is it a problem?"

"No.  I mean, not for anyone except Ari."  He shrugs. 

"Why do you not simply give her a potion to give to Arthur?  Let the poor darling have what she wants."  Her expression is suddenly rapt.

Yusuf snorts.  In a low voice, he tells her, "A, you don't give a shit about Ari's feelings, my dear, so you can stop pretending to.  B, I'm not stupid enough to cross Arthur or Eames that way.  I know it would make Dom happy if Eames was out of the picture, but you can leave me out of your scheming on that point.  There are a lot of other ways you could be making Dom happy, including letting him back in your bed."  He drills his gaze into hers, making sure she knows he's serious.

"Perhaps," Mal says airily, looking down at her book again -- and he's done here.  He's offended by the suggestion, but he also can't help but admire her nerve. 

As he leaves her room, he sees a flash of pale skin in Eames' doorway.  Arthur's dark eyes glint at him -- had he overheard all that? -- before the door shuts firmly.  Yusuf hastily exits the guild hall. 

He stands outside the door for a moment, debating a course of action, and finally heads to the Dwarven District to while away a few hours gambling and drinking and maybe taking Mal's advice about those thick dwarven women.  He happens to know that Morgg Stormshot is off on a quest at the moment, and his wife Elin is a plump little mouse who likes to play when the cat's away. 

Yusuf has never fancied himself a saint, after all. 


	5. The Mage (Longing)

Ariadne is in love with Arthur.  Arthur is in love with Eames.  That's just the way it is.

It's ridiculous, anyway.  After all, she only comes up to Arthur's knees.  Even his great saber-toothed cat form is taller than she is, even when he has all four feet on the ground.  If he wanted to, he could pick her up by her collar and carry her like a kitten, and her feet wouldn't even touch the floor. 

But he wouldn't, of course; Arthur isn't disrespectful.  And he's never been anything but kind to her. That's the problem right there.  He's made it clear, without either of them ever having to come out and say it, that she's a friend, a sister, to him. 

What he wants instead of her, what he has, is a brawny, rakishly attractive rogue, with a wicked tongue and plush, laughing lips, who can not only match Arthur in beauty and physical prowess, but also go feral with him: shed the veneer of civilized humanoid form and flicker into pure, literal beasthood.  She's seen the two of them, wading in with blades and then with teeth and claws, rending and slashing and decimating any threat to the team.  And she's seen Arthur with Eames afterward: how Eames is the first person he looks for after a skirmish has concluded, how he ignores his own wounds to tend to Eames, the tender way his dark, deepset eyes watch Eames's face while he pours his healing magic into the beloved body.  Something in Arthur, stoic organized dependable Arthur, craves that wildness and that tenderness, and he has them both with Eames.  Their devotion to each other is unquestioning and absolute. 

Ari?  She's a gnome. She's cute, yeah.  Adorable, even.  Plenty of goblin and gnome and dwarven admirers have told her so.  But that's as far as it goes. 

And more than that, she's a mage.  She's powerful, very much so, and she's still relatively inexperienced -- when she has her full armor set and her full training, there will be very little that can withstand her direct attacks -- but her power is all bound up in her intellect. She's physically fragile and delicate, and she may as well be a disembodied brain for all she contributes to a fight.  She simply can't keep up with Dom or Arthur or Eames or Saito, or even Mal's terrifying Felguard (who looks at Ariadne as if she is a tasty snack), in terms of physical brutality.  When shit goes south or she runs out of mana, one of the melee fighters has to divert his attention to physically protecting her until she can recover. 

Arthur is a good healer, serving without complaint when Yusuf can't accompany the team, as deft and careful and efficient with it as he is with everything else he sets his hand to.  But it's obvious that there's no joy in it for him, not the same way Ariadne enjoys marshaling and unleashing her massive destructive spells.  She can tell he'd rather be in the fray, back to back with Eames, his blood singing and surging instead of standing back invoking and releasing carefully directed bits of healing energy.  That, together with everything else, tells her that she couldn't be what he wants, physically or otherwise as a partner, and she's learned to accept that. 

Ariadne likes Eames, she really does.  (Everyone does, except maybe Dom, and that's probably because Eames doesn't bother concealing his dislike for Dom, or the way Arthur snaps to attention in his role as second-in-command whenever Dom calls for him.)  She doesn't harbor any secret fantasies about Eames, so she's perfectly content to fill the little sister role with him.

In fact, it's almost nice, in a way, when Arthur disappears on a solo quest, because Eames is a little mopey and faraway at times, but he obviously enjoys Ariadne's company and is happy to help her with a quest or escort her to gather materials for her engineering devices.  He's always perfectly pleasant to her when Arthur comes back, but he can't hide that his thoughts are first and foremost on Arthur then: his senses alert to Arthur's whereabouts, Arthur's moods, Arthur's desires.  

Ariadne doesn't begrudge Eames his Arthur, or his happiness with Arthur, but she wishes -- oh, how she wishes -- she had an Arthur of her own. Someone to share her bed, rub her shoulders, laze in the bath with her, bring her breakfast in bed.  Someone with a gorgeous, ivory-and-lilac cat form who would let her scratch his furry belly and stroke his silky head and curl his whole body around her and purr her to sleep. (Arthur's ability to shapeshift is far from his least desirable attribute in her eyes, even if she'd never tell anyone that.)  Someone who could see beyond her perky, adorable little exterior to the yearnings of the adult woman inside.  

She loves being in the guild, and she appreciates the support she receives, but there's a queer little emptiness at the back of her mind all the time, a lack of completeness.  Seeing Arthur and Eames together, and even Mal and Dom, as much as they fight, means that her secret loneliness is near-constantly in her mind. 

It aches sometimes, when she can hear them together, the excited snarls and growls of their play-fighting, Arthur's deep satisfied purr when Eames has him pinned belly-up.  And that howl of his, seeing Arthur for the first time in weeks today -- wild joy and relief and hunger and fulfilled longing, all at once, expressed more surely and purely than any human words could. 

It had made her nipples go hard, sparked a throb between her legs, and she'd snapped at Eames more viciously than she'd meant to.  She'd covered it up, made her apologies, but she couldn't stay in the hall after they'd retreated, laughing and jostling one another, from the dinner table. 

She knows Yusuf has his paramours, and that he's not above visiting a prostitute when his itch needs scratching (and also, there's that icky fascination he has with Mal's succubus).  She doesn't know what Saito does about his urges, and she doesn't know him well enough to ask; he's unfailingly polite to her, but a little scary too, something aloof and vicious in his personality warning her away from trying to make any closer acquaintance with him.  And of course there are male prostitutes, or her gnome and goblin admirers, who would be happy to tumble her about for a night or so, but that doesn't appeal to her.  She wants something real, with someone she can look up to, and there just don't seem to be any prospects. 

She leaves the hall that night, entering into spirited debate at the Wizard's Sanctum with some of the other mages, then adjourning to the Gilded Rose to get good and drunk and pass the night in the inn.  After all, it isn't as if anyone will notice if she isn't in her room that night.  She'll be hungover in the morning, but Yusuf has a potion for that.  And she'll pick herself up and go on, though to what end she's not sure; the guild itself will have to be enough, for now.


	6. The Warrior (Submitting)

It isn't easy being Dom. Nobody seems to understand that.

All he wants is for his little guild to run smoothly, and for other people to take notice of who Dom has on his team and what a classy operation he runs and beg to join him.  For Mal to love him, and for Saito to keep funneling cash into the guild vault, for Eames to behave himself, and for Yusuf and Arthur and Ariadne to stay with him, visible assurance that this is a quality, up-and-coming guild. 

It's a good guild, but it could be great -- he can see that so clearly.  If they would just apply themselves a little more, try harder to forge connections with influential trainers, help him recruit other promising fighters and healers, he thinks they could go really far.

See, someday Dom wants to lead a real raiding guild, to marshal a team of forty or more, take on the most challenging dungeons, win the most lucrative, most impressive loot.  What he has now is just the beginning, although if he has to say so himself, he's made a pretty good start.  Even though they don't properly appreciate what Dom does for them or the opportunities he's setting before them, they're an excellent, well-oiled fighting machine, competent and decisive and fearless.  It's just that they could be better, and he's the only one who seems to see it or to care. 

In the early days, of course, there was Arthur.  Arthur, who was still young and unsure of his skills, wearing substandard armor and spending more time healing himself after fights than he did fighting.  Dom had come across the rookie druid when Arthur was struggling stubbornly and fruitlessly against a group of troggs on his own.  He'd rushed in, taunted the troggs away, helped him kill them, and offered a few pointers on Arthur's tanking.  Dom doesn't know shit about healing or spells or how Arthur gets in and out of bear form to begin with, but Dom knows tanking inside and out, and Arthur genuinely appreciated the advice. 

Lacking any reason not to, they'd teamed up from there out, and when Dom decided he wanted to start building a guild, they'd both simply assumed Arthur would build it with him.  When Dom runs his raiding guild, he wants Arthur there too.  Dom is the figurehead, the executive, the showman; Arthur is the operations expert, the researcher, the glue that holds the whole group together. 

Dom is gracious about Arthur's duties to the Cenarion Circle, because he knows Arthur will always come back to the guild and to Dom.  More than that, he knows that Arthur will willingly undergo great personal inconvenience and rearrange his own obligations, do without sleep and put off tending to his own needs, in order to serve the guild.  Arthur does what Dom believes all of their other teammates should be doing:  he studies tactics for all classes, not just his own; he goes out and talks to the most elite raiders about their experiences; he offers himself as a healer, even though he hates it, just to observe other groups' fighting styles and strategies.  Some of his offhand suggestions about gear and spell order and even where particular people should stand during particular boss fights have made the difference between success and failure, life and death. 

In some circles, it is Dom's acquisition of Arthur that is the true display of Dom's leadership.  Arthur is a selling point.  Dom's not sure if Arthur knows this or not.

Dom has known Miles, an elderly dwarf paladin, for as long as he could remember.  It was Miles who had introduced him to Mal, and, later, to Ariadne.  Ari is still young, but extraordinarily gifted and intuitive.  She's by far the most pleasant member of the guild, helpful and supportive and generally good-natured, and Dom's very glad to have her.  He even spends some of his own, personal, very valuable time helping her gear up, for the greater glory of the guild, of course. 

There's Saito, who'd emerged from decades of the Lich King's control only to install himself on a more or less permanent basis in the Ironforge auction house.  When he isn't buying, selling or trading, he's fishing, the more remote the location the better.  Despite the fact that he spends very little time there, it's Saito's wealth that pays for the guild hall and laid in the reserves in the guild vaults, which he shares freely.  In exchange for his generosity, he asks only that the team provide him with their extra raw materials to sell and trade, and to take shifts guarding him when he's fishing in contested territories.  They're all very happy to oblige him. 

Dom also has Yusuf, who, for all of his indolence and his somewhat distasteful fixation with succubi, is one of the better healers Dom's ever worked with, not to mention a prolific and skilled alchemist and cook.  The guild procures him ingredients, and he produces feasts, brews beer, makes his own wines, and keeps them all fully stocked with flasks and potions.  He seems happy, so Dom lets him do what he wants and doesn't question it.  He does wonder occasionally why he never sees Yusuf at the Cathedral of Light (Dom makes sure to be seen there on a regular basis; it's a good way to network), but Dom doesn't know that much about what priests do.  He assumes Yusuf is doing whatever it is he needs to in order to stay in good with the Light.  As long as Yusuf can heal and resurrect Dom when needed, Dom isn't going to pry into his personal life.

And then there's Eames.  They'd run across Eames after the Cataclysm and the shattering of the Greymane Wall, when Dom and Arthur were exploring the ruined land of Gilneas, and Eames was looking for a guide to the rest of Azeroth.  The chemistry between him and Arthur was immediate and so powerful that even Dom, who's as heterosexual as it gets, felt an uncomfortable sense of arousal just being near them.  He'd never seen Arthur, calm unruffle-able Arthur, like that, so wholeheartedly and ecstatically drawn to another person.

And what a person: to Dom, Eames' archaic clothing, his upper-class accent, his dry, sarcastic wit, his fondness for old-fashioned music and books -- all juxtaposed with a certain crudity from his worg aspect -- make him a less than appealing companion.  His absolute delight regarding his worgen form, and the way it encourages Arthur to spend so much time in his own alternate form, also bothers Dom, who can't shift forms himself and always feels a little uneasy giving orders to an enormous, shaggy golden wolf-creature and the graceful, inscrutable giant cat who's perpetually at his side. 

Dom is pretty sure he'll never understand Eames' sense of humor, or even like him particularly, but his loyalty to Arthur is absolute, and he's a wickedly fast, ferocious fighter. 

The problem is this:  Eames could do it, could take the guild right out from under him.  Much as he tries to conceal it behind the silly-ass act and the protestations of inexperience, he's a gifted and ruthless tactician.  When Dom's sat out a quest for one reason or another, it's always Eames who steps up to call the shots, deploying the team like he's been doing this all his life -- and Arthur seems only too happy to serve as his backup, instead of assuming command himself.  The guild might not follow Eames yet, but Dom thinks someday it might come down to it if he can't manage to keep his relations with Eames cordial.  Eames is a problem, a lurking thorn in Dom's side, but he can't get rid of Eames and expect to keep Arthur.  Or, at least, he hasn't _figured out_ how to get rid of Eames and keep Arthur.  Yet. 

There are other guildmates, but they're not in the core of the group, for a variety of reasons.  Miles, Browning and Maurice are all-but-retired, content to step in when they need an extra body or two, but spending most of their time serving as trainers and administrators for their various classes. Tadashi, Philippa and James are too young and inexperienced to participate in dungeon crawls just yet. They share a bunkroom in the guild hall, but are rarely there, too busy cutting their teeth out there in the world, undergoing training and gaining confidence in their skills.  Fischer, a hunter, prefers the company of his enormous snow leopard companion over that of people; he joins them when necessary on the larger, more complicated dungeons, but is happiest doing his own thing. 

Finally, there's Mal.  Mal, who sears Dom's heart, who maddens and entices him, who infuriates and enrages him but whom he craves, helplessly and wantonly.  His helplessness makes him irritable, makes him lash out, needling her, reminding her how alone, how _excluded_ she was, before the guild took her in.  He hates himself every time he does it, crawls back to her on his knees to plead forgiveness, but then she gets under his skin and he does it again. 

It's been three years since the night she ordered him to come to her room and fuck her breathless.  The sex is sublime, always, but the constant clashes between them, the way they can't ever seem to hold a conversation without savaging each other, exhaust him.  It irks him, too, that she feels so free to challenge his authority as guild master.  He's dimly aware that their guildmates are frustrated and unhappy with his relationship with Mal, with all of the screaming and name-calling and dramatic showdowns, but he doesn't know what to do about it.

What bothers him the most right now, though, is that she let her demon, that sly impudent foul-mouthed little imp, _sleep in Dom's bed_ , and the idiot creature had risen up out of absolute darkness and singed off Dom's goddamn facial hair. 

He'd told Yusuf he was going to Ironforge to pick up a smithing schematic, but in reality, he was slinking away to a barber to see if anything could be done about his missing eyebrows and lashes.  The beard was a lost cause, especially if it was going to freak Shallax out again, but Dom looks very, very strange without his eyebrows, and he's not sure he can properly apologize to Mal, win his way back into his own bed, when he knows they're still missing.  He'd been lucky; the barber had roared with laughter, but he knew the right spell.  They might not be quite identical to his old ones, but they're normal-looking human eyebrows, and that's good enough for Dom. 

He steps off the tram and breathes in the familiar air of Stormwind.  Unfortunately, Stormwind suffers from the same problem any city with waterways suffers -- the canals are too inviting, and the municipal refuse heaps too far apart, for the inhabitants to resist dumping garbage into the water, although the penalties for doing so are steep.  Arthur, Ariadne, and Yusuf have spells for purifying water, so the guild is still able to draw from the canals for its cooking water and bathwater, but the trash problem does give the city a certain recognizable aroma.  He finds it preferable to the smoke and heat of Ironforge, though -- the dark caverns, with the lack of windows and the constant tinge of sulfur in the air, always make him feel queasy.  Stormwind may be stinky, but it's at least in the open air. 

It's late by the time he steps into the guild hall.  He can smell the remains of dinner, but the fire is banked, and there is no-one in the greatroom.  The sounds emanating from Eames' room make it immediately obvious why.

Eames and Arthur's blatant lack of concern for propriety had been the bane of Dom's existence for several weeks after they met Eames.  Arthur is a Night Elf, a culture deeply steeped in erotica and shameless about public nakedness; he's equally at home in his bare skin as an elf or a cat or a bear.  And Eames is just a beast in either of his forms, as far as Dom is concerned.  Between the casual nudity and the loud, frequent sex, in humanoid _and_ animal form, camping with the two of them for a prolonged period of time would have been enough to traumatize anyone.  Dom couldn't get out of Gilneas fast enough, and he still avoids traveling with them, taking circuitous routes or pretending to miss a boat so that he doesn't have to see or hear them screwing again.

Yet here he is, and here they are.  And, he knows, here is Mal, no doubt listening avidly to the grunting and moaning and panting, Arthur's deep voice murmuring low and lyrical in Darnassian, Eames' rich raspy drawl answering him in Gilnean.  Unlike Dom, Mal doesn't seem to mind it in the least, and in fact, sometimes she unabashedly gets off on it.  If he goes into their room now, assuming she doesn't throw him out, he will probably find her touching herself.  It's happened before. 

Well, standing out here listening to them isn't accomplishing anything except giving him an unwilling, and inappropriate, hard-on.  He draws himself up to his full height (it's only a couple of inches more than Mal, but he makes them count) and strides to the door of the room he shares with her.

She's in there, not yet actively getting her freak on, but she's listening, all right.  Her book rests, forgotten, on the bed by her side, and her cheeks are rosy pink, her breath coming just slightly too fast.  She looks at Dom in the doorway, her odd light blue eyes unreadable, and then she does slide a hand slowly down over her bodice, over her hip, to just trace over the juncture of her thighs under the deep crimson gown. 

"I should like to watch the two of them together, someday," she says in her faintly accented voice, watching his face. "They are very beautiful men. It would be such a sensual experience, to see them make love to each other."

He flushes, which he knows was her intent. He's going to have to endure whatever poison she needs to get out of her system before they can get to the making up; that's how this works, with them.  "Mal," he starts, and she sits up straighter.

"Yes?  You think that if you come in here and pleasure me, I will forget your unkind words? Allow you to stay in my bed? That I will say, oh Dom, my darling, all is forgiven?" Her voice is silvery with malice under a cloying sweetness.

"No, Mal."  He reminds himself:  _E_ _ndure, don't react.  
_

"Then perhaps you are here to grovel for my forgiveness instead.  Would you sleep on the floor, Dom, like a dog, if I tell you to?" she muses. 

"I apologize," he says steadily.  _Don't give in, don't give her justifications._ _  
_

Mal looks away from him, apparently bored, then draws the hem of her gown slowly up her bare legs:  ankle, calf, thigh.  Her smallclothes are black and silky.  She drops back onto her elbows and hooks a thumb into the sides of them, then pulls them down to her knees.  Her small hand moves back to her breasts, cupping them more fully, and then back between her thighs, stroking deep and slow.  She doesn't look at him, her head slightly turned away (toward the wall separating their room from Eames and Arthur's), but he knows he's in her peripheral vision.  He can smell her arousal, a familiar rich wild honey scent that makes him want to taste her.

The groaning on the other side of the wall is louder, more frequent, the deep male voices nearly indistinct from each other.

Dom stands, stoic.  He's still hard, and what she's doing is only making it more acute.  She's already told him what he's supposed to do, but she hasn't given him permission to begin yet.  She likes to draw it out, this little game. 

"Such a lovely, tender thing, is it not?" she whispers.  "A woman's body.  Like a wet rose, all soft unfurling petals." 

He takes a deep breath, but doesn't move.   If he asks, if he approaches her, she will either shut down entirely or rage at him.  He has to wait.

There's an arrythmic thump and a startled yelp on the other side of the wall, a second of silence, and then stifled laughter, the murmur of deep masculine voices.  Then Eames grunts as if in surprise, and Arthur says something urgently in Darnassian, and the groaning picks up again.

Really, this is just flat-out indecent.  Dom really is going to have to speak with them about this, put his foot down -- after he's done here. He squints at the wall in irritation. 

Through it all, Mal's slow strokes quicken, her parted lips and the quick rise and fall of her small breasts betraying how close she is to coming.  Shamelessly, she writhes before him, her pace quickening even more, until her legs stiffen and her hips stutter, her eyes closed and her teeth biting into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.  

After a moment, panting, she swipes her tongue delicately over the drop of blood on her lip, swings her legs over to sit at the edge of the bed, spreads them apart, and looks at him directly.  "Kneel down and lick me clean, dog." 

Hating himself for giving in, but craving her love and the release of her body and being able to sleep in his own damned bed, he drops to his knees before her, pulls her smallclothes off entirely, and bends to kiss and mouth at her core.  Mal gasps and grips his head, drawing him closer to her.  She begins to make soft breathless noises, whines and sighs and delicate moans. 

In the other room, Eames shouts suddenly, there are three rapid cracks of a flat hand on bare skin, and Arthur moans, hoarse and broken and incoherent.  Then silence. 

Mal strips her gown over her head, pushes Dom's head away, and kneels on the bed.  "Come, ravage me," she orders, her pointed chin turned toward him over her naked, slender shoulder. 

Dom complies. 

She's more talkative than usual, urging him on, yowling like a cat in heat.  He thinks he knows why, but he's not going to pull back or try to quiet her.  That's never turned out well for him in the past.  He just blushes and grimly increases his pace, trying to bring them both to a rapid finish.  She responds with more volume, hissing and purring and spouting frankly filthy phrases, her voice soaring as she nears her second climax. 

"Oi!" Eames bellows, and thumps the wall. "Keep it down in there, you slag."  Dom can faintly hear Arthur, _giggling_ , the frivolous sound incongruent in Arthur's deep voice.  He's not sure he will ever be able to look Arthur in the eye again. 

In response, Mal redoubles her noises.  Dom is half embarrassed, half titillated, and in any event, unable to stop what he's doing or even to keep wholly quiet himself.  He barrels ahead, Mal gasping and writhing under him, scoring his back with her nails. 

She deliberately shrieks her way to a third orgasm, and that realization startles Dom into coming too, with a grunt and a long wordless moan.  In the silence afterward, Mal titters, and then yelps with laughter.  Eames answers her from the other side of the wall with a hearty guffaw, and Arthur giggles again. 

Dom groans in disbelief that  _this is his life_ , rolls over onto his stomach, and pulls a cushion over his head. 

The bed shakes as Mal continues whooping with laughter.  Dom hates her, hates them, hates all three of them. 

Mal leans over and pulls a corner of the cushion up so he can hear her.  "Dom, my darling," she says, and there's a vivid, uncharacteristically genuine smile on her face.  He knows she loves him, but he wishes, not for the first or the last time, that she didn't have to make it so damn complicated. 


	7. The Druid (Waking)

Arthur wakes gradually, rising into consciousness at a slow deliberate pace until he's fully aware of where he is and what he's doing there.  He'd been in the Emerald Dream, trying to help some of the Unwaking out of the Nightmare and back into their bodies.  The Arch Druids have not, as yet, called him to spend years or decades in the Dream, as all druids eventually must.  Mindful of this, he tends to obey their waking summonses with alacrity, and to spend time each night in the Dream, rendering what assistance he can.  It's a slow, maddening process, doomed to failure for the majority of the unlucky dream-travelers who are caught in the shifting, unpredictable path of the Nightmare. 

The night is past, though, and he's awake, in Stormwind, in the guild hall, in a pile of soft furs, entwined with his lover.  Eames is snoring softly but steadily, his hot breath relaxed and regular against the back of Arthur's neck.  Arthur can feel the heartbeat where his head is curled against Eames' ribs, burrowed under one heavy foreleg.

Stormwind is never wholly silent, but the noises of its early risers are dim and muted through the brick and mortar walls of the guild hall.  He'll go to the inn, he thinks, maybe pick up some spice bread and sweetened goat's milk to bring back for breakfast.  In a little while. He's deeply content to be reunited with his partner, in his own little nest again, no quests and no obligations and no unwelcome tasks intruding on this still quiet morning just yet.  

Eames's furry belly radiates warmth, and Arthur wriggles in closer to him, stretching slightly and flexing his claws, then nudging his cool, wet nose up into Eames' shaggy neck with a faint purr.  Eames' tail thumps twice, but he doesn't stir, and Arthur is relieved; he needs to think about what he wants to say before Eames wakes.

They'll have to talk about Yusuf's conversation with Mal.  He'd overheard the very end of it, and Yusuf had seen him, so Yusuf knows he heard them.  That means they'll have to face up to it sooner rather than later.  He hadn't wanted to bring it up with Eames last night -- didn't want to sully their reunion with talk of guild politics or strategy -- but it needs to be done. If Mal, and by extension Dom (or is it the other way around?), are actively contemplating pushing Eames out of the guild, he and Eames are going to have to make a decision about how to respond, and they'll have to do it quickly.  It makes Arthur uneasy, and he's not sure how best to approach it.

It had been obvious early on that Eames and Dom didn't care much for each other, but they're both skilled professionals, and Arthur had hoped that they could both overlook their antipathy for the guild's sake if not for his own.  Eames, at least, respects Arthur's wishes on this point, and has been careful to refrain from outright antagonizing Dom -- or, at any rate, not antagonizing Dom more than he does any other member of the guild.  Dom probably didn't take last night's shouted insults or laughter while he was trying to get laid very well, Arthur knows, but Mal had both deliberately provoked it and found it entertaining.  She and Eames have a similarly rude sense of humor at times, and they can goad each other past the point of common decency when they're in the proper frame of mind for it.  Arthur has to admit that, Dom's tendency toward prudery aside, it _had_ been comical.  

Dom clearly doesn't favor Eames' company, but he hasn't hesitated to rely on his skill and experience in battle.  As far as either of them knew, Dom had been counting on Eames remaining with the guild as it grows. And yes, Arthur is biased, but he's also a skilled administrator, tactician, and healer, and he knows that any guild would be happy to have Eames.  He's intelligent and attentive and thoughtful and generous; he plays hard, but he works harder, and as long as his teammates act in good faith, he's completely reliable.  In a fight, he's careful and judicious in his aggro management, but when he goes all in he's fierce and efficient and lethal.  Dom would be foolish not to value that. 

Arthur had assumed that the two of them had reached a workable detente, but maybe he's been wrong about that, at least on Dom's part.  If Dom has a concern about Eames, he hasn't discussed it with Arthur, and that makes Arthur wary.  Nothing has changed, at least to Arthur's knowledge, that would be spurring Dom to take action to induce Eames to leave the guild and/or Arthur.  He makes a mental note to sit down with Dom sometime that day, to go over guild business and their recruiting schedule and see if any clues emerge to give him a sense of whether Dom intends to act or not. 

As for Yusuf, he's not truly worried about being dosed with a love potion -- Yusuf is too afraid of what Arthur or Eames, or both, might do to him if he did -- but they should consider the possibility that Mal might decide to take matters into her own hands, or suggest that Dom do so.  Arthur doesn't think Dom would stoop so low as to stab him in the back that way, but Mal is Dom's weak point, and Arthur clearly doesn't know Dom as well as he thought he did. 

Ariadne...  well, there's really nothing to be done on that front.  He's known for some time that she doesn't see him as the elder brother he's tried to be to her, but she's done her best to keep it private, and he respects her wishes.  She's done nothing overt to make things awkward between them or to force him to respond to her feelings. He'd hoped that it would simply continue to be that way until she finds someone else to fall in love with. 

Eames knows, of course; he and Arthur have no secrets from each other.  Eames is genuinely fond of Ariadne, and he knows she's not a threat to his partnership with Arthur.  Neither of them would ever dream of embarrassing her by confronting her about it.  Arthur wishes for Ariadne's sake and his own that Yusuf hadn't told _Mal_ , who is refreshingly oblivious to other peoples' feelings when they don't involve her, but wishing for Yusuf to keep any tantalizing tidbit of information to himself is and always has been a lost cause.

He sighs.  

Eames seems to sense his tension.  He transitions directly from being soundly, snoringly asleep to stretching and emitting a long, noisy yawn, his powerful jaws cracking faintly and the whoosh of his released breath tingling the long sensitive hairs on the tips of Arthur's silky ears.  Arthur rears back and meets Eames' eyes, then cuffs him lightly on the shoulder with one velveted paw, their longstanding signal to simultaneously shift so they can talk.  (He loves Eames in all of their forms, but he prefers their physical contact to be like with like; he's never particularly enjoyed waking to find his tall elven body wrapped around a furry, drooling worg, and it always strikes him as faintly perverse to feel Eames' human hands on Arthur's sleek feline pelt.)

Eames as a worg is a hulking, tawny beast, solidly muscled with enormous paws and wicked teeth, the human intelligence lurking in his yellow eyes an eerie counterpoint to his savage countenance.  Eames the man is no less powerful, but far more beautiful to Arthur's elven eyes, with his full, sensual mouth and clever grey eyes, his carelessly tousled light brown hair and the intricate tattoos that cover his arms and torso.  His athletic, proudly masculine body is every inch as familiar and vital to Arthur as his own.  Arthur gazes down on it now with affection and not a little bit of arousal -- but they need to talk, first.

He brushes his lips fondly over Eames' forehead, relishing the sweet, immediate grin that results, and then he tells Eames what he'd overheard from Yusuf and Mal the night before. 

Eames takes it in, his eyes thoughtful, and doesn't respond right away. 

"It would take more than a love potion to induce me to leave you, Arthur," he says eventually, looking evenly into Arthur's eyes. 

Arthur is suddenly, fiercely glad that this is Eames' first concern: to reassure.  He twines his fingers through Eames' and squeezes hard.  "I know that."

Eames scrubs his free hand irritably through his rumpled hair.  "Sod it, I've been _good_ , Arthur, I've kept my mouth shut and done what he's bloody told me to do and I haven't challenged him, or said or done anything to Mal either, for that matter. So I've no idea where this is coming from."

Arthur regards him unhappily.  "We've both known Dom feels threatened by you," he reminds Eames.  "I just --  I didn't think he'd move on it.  I thought he knew he'd lose me if he tried to push you out, thought that would stay his hand." 

Eames' eyes are tight and unhappy.  "Would he, darling?  Lose you?  I'm not," he hastens to assure Arthur, "doubting the way you feel about me.  But the guild has been your life for so long, you've put so much into it.  And I know you feel you owe Dom..."

" _You're_ my life," Arthur tells him emphatically, sitting upright. "You're my home, and you have been since I laid eyes on you in Gilneas.  If Dom thinks to keep me here with guilt, or promises of money or prestige, at the cost of losing you, he's wrong and I'll make him know it." 

They're both silent then, looking directly into one another's face and seeing the truth there.  Eames' face softens.  "My heart."

"My other half," Arthur murmurs, and brings Eames' hand to his lips.

"What's to be done, then?" Eames asks after a moment.  "Yusuf won't go to Dom with this, he's too afraid of you.  And Mal may take any underhanded opportunity that presents itself to put a wedge between us, but she won't bring it into the open.  Unless you want to go to Dom directly..." 

Arthur curls his arms around his knees and shakes his head.  "No.  I don't want to force anyone's hand at this point.  I just wanted to be sure you and I were united in our response to any acts, overt or otherwise.  Since Mal is a bit of a loose cannon, we can't know when or how things will come to a head."

"I've done nothing to Mal," Eames says again, a bit indignantly. "I've sat and listened to her yammer about Dom this and Dom that for I don't know how many hours.  I thought she rather liked me."

Arthur sighs, and rises to start pulling on a pair of cotton breeches.  "I don't think Mal bears you any ill will, honestly, but her drive to please Dom may push her to do something rash and stupid.  I doubt she'd actively try to harm either of us, but keep your eye on her." 

Eames frowns, his jaw set in a stubbornness that is all too familiar to Arthur, but he merely nods his acquiescence and says nothing, just watches Arthur dress.

The thought of Darnassus flickers into Arthur's head again as he laces a leather jerkin over his shirt: his little house there, the quiet serenity of the city and the natural majesty of Teldrassil, the hot springs and exquisite feasts, the learned druids he could study with.  Genn Greymane and other Gilneans have made Darnassus their temporary home as well, and it might be a boon for Eames to spend more time with his countrymen, who have for the most part eschewed the bustling environs of Stormwind.  But he still doesn't know if Eames would be willing to trade in the energy and activity of life in the human capital for an existence surrounded by the mysticism and formal social structure of the kaldorei. 

Their words this morning, the renewed commitment to each other and their partnership, give him hope, but he's still wary of wanting it too badly and facing either Eames' unhappiness or a reluctant capitulation to Arthur's desire instead of his own.  So he doesn't bring it up, and Eames doesn't suggest an alternative. 

They'll wait, then, and watch each other's backs as they always do, and Arthur thinks perhaps if he receives another summons from the Cenarion Circle, or if Dom asks him to travel to scout new recruits, he'll either demur or ask Eames to accompany him.  He tries to keep his obligations and their relationship separate, not to impose his own myriad responsibilities on Eames, but this new development warrants a re-evaluation of their standard practices.  And perhaps Eames would prefer a change; he's never said so, but Arthur can see the glum resignation with which Eames greets every announcement that Arthur is leaving, and he's asked to be allowed to go with Arthur often enough. 

He forces his features into an approximation of normality, tries to hide the unease he feels.  He doesn't think he's doing a very good job of it, but Eames knows him well enough to see it and trusts him enough to let him work it out on his own.  He'll be there if and when Arthur wants to talk it through.  Until then --

"If you'll wait here, love, I'll bring you breakfast, and then we'll see how loud I can make you howl." 


	8. The Death Knight (Existing)

Fishing and trading:  it's a far cry from Saito's past as one of the elite Death Knights serving as the Lich King's personal guard.  He's often taken aback by just how peaceful his existence has become;  most days now go by without him having to draw his greatsword or reap any souls at all.  If anyone had forecast this life for him five years ago, he wouldn't have bothered to laugh, but would have simply and emotionlessly have obliterated the prognosticator.  Now, he can barely remember what it was to be that Saito -- Saito the merciless, Saito the grim.  His former life feels like a long-ago dream, increasingly blurred and fading around the edges. 

If needed, he can summon up the killing edge again, but his agile mind, which can calculate buy and sell contingencies for dozens of rare items at a time, uncharacteristically hesitates in choosing spell order and juggling defensive moves with damaging blows.  He can hold his own as an off-tank or melee fighter, but he is no longer the best at what he does.  He had thought that this fact would bother him, but it does not.  While he keeps himself in shape, and puts in time sparring and training in order to maintain his basic skills, Saito is no longer interested in bragging about his statistics or displaying his trophies.  He takes no joy or delight in battle.  For the most part, these days, he is simply Saito the numb, Saito the silent. 

He had disclosed his flaws to Dom and Arthur, laying out his attributes and defects before them with little ego or care: here is my offer, take it or leave it.  It was a small guild still, but large enough for what he had in mind, and he knew Dom would see that if he took the time to reflect on it.  He could see Dom's mind racing, trying to gauge his trustworthiness, weighing the time it would take to outfit Saito in raiding gear against the profit that Saito was promising.  But Arthur -- the druid, the healer -- saw something more, Saito thought.  He saw the brokenness at Saito's core, the absence of identity that is Saito's best defense against his past. 

Saito didn't mind.  It was almost comforting, in a way, to be known so. 

It had been Arthur to make the decision for them all, bypassing Dom's lengthy, squinting thought processes and holding out his hand to welcome Saito to the Inceptors.  Perhaps Arthur believes Saito can be saved, or made whole again.  Saito doesn't think so, but it would have been discourteous to say as much to Arthur.  He had accepted the invitation with thanks, politely introduced himself to his new guildmates, inventoried their financial and raw material resources, and then planted himself at the Ironforge auction house and began making astonishing amounts of money. If anyone has reservations about his history as a Death Knight, they have kept them to themselves. 

Whatever Arthur's reasons for accepting him had been, it has turned out to be a splendid arrangement for them all.  Saito does not often involve himself in the socio-political entanglements of the guild.  For the most part, his relationship with the other members functions on an economic basis. They bring him raw materials and excess loot, he trades them in the auction house at a profit, and the profits go directly into the guild bank for any member to use as needed.   It is an elegant and efficient solution for everyone. 

This does not mean that he is blind to the unspoken allegiances and undercurrents of emotion among his guildmates, however.  His dispassionate gaze has detected that Arthur's loyalty to Eames greatly surpasses Arthur's loyalty to Dom; that Yusuf's indulgences with women are endangering his relationship with the Light; that there is something more wild and fractured in Mal than there is even in Saito himself.  He sees Ariadne's silent longing and Dom's dangerous hubris, and Miles' silent concern for them all.  But it does not touch him.  Truly, if they spurned him tomorrow, he would not miss them, he thinks.  Being solitary again would simply make his life more complicated, less orderly.  That is why he sought out a guild, and it is why he remains. 

It has been a long night of trading.  While his feelings are increasingly muted these days, he does experience a modicum of pride and pleasure in his work.  He has significantly enriched his guild in the past few hours, and decides to indulge in a few hours' rest as a reward.  On the long tram ride between Ironforge and Stormwind, he shuts off the active, thinking part of his mind, becoming merely a passive observer of the walls of the tunnel and the noise of the engines, letting it all flow through and over and around his body, his individual Saito-ness absent.  It is the nearest he comes to feeling good, these days -- when he is no longer conscious of being himself, but is instead empty of identity or thought.  This should probably concern him, but he cannot bring himself to care. 

Rather than head straight for the guild hall, Saito finds himself turning left at the canal. Bemused, he allows his feet to go where they will, and apparently his feet are in communication with his stomach because he finds himself in short order at the Gilded Rose, queuing for Mistress Allison's breakfast breads and sweet hot drinks in a jostling, sleepy crowd. 

He sees Ariadne at a corner table, holding a steaming mug nearly as big as her head and frowning at her companions' conversation.  She lifts her chin, smiles and raises an eyebrow at him, but doesn't get up or invite him to join her, so he merely lifts a hand in return and leaves her in peace. 

Saito no longer eats meat or milk.  The thought of swallowing blood and flesh, or the product of flesh, sickens him.  His body, and its faint musty odor of rot, is a constant reminder of what he is, or was, and that the body he was born into and lived such a joyous carefree life in so many years ago lies moldering in a graveyard somewhere in the Plaguelands.  It amazes and disgusts him.  Sometimes he yearns to shuck it off, rid himself of the heavy dead meat clothing his bones and anchoring him in life.  He cannot stand to take more flesh into himself, and so he subsists these days on breads and fruits, bloodless and innocent. 

When he reaches the counter and catches Allison's eye, he asks for a flask of melon juice, a loaf of sweet potato bread and a bag of spiced lichen.  As he turns to leave, tucking his food under his elbow, he is startled to find himself face to face with Arthur. 

"Saito," Arthur says gravely in his deep voice, and bows his head slightly.  A lock of hair tumbles over one of his long, pointed ears, and he tucks it absently back in place.  "It's good to see you.  Are you staying at the hall?"

"I would like to eat, and rest for a few hours," Saito tells him.  "That is all."  He waits.  Perhaps there are more courtesies he should exchange?  But he is really too tired, and too numb, to think of them. 

Arthur looks closely at him, his brow furrowing.  "I'll walk with you.  Will you wait for me?  I'm just picking up breakfast for Eames."  Despite the concern in his voice, he lingers lovingly on that last word, and Saito finds himself faintly smiling.  Arthur is ruthless and dangerous, a very efficient and sensible Arthur indeed; but even the thought of Eames visibly lights up his eyes and softens his whole face. 

Saito had felt like that, once.  Back when he was human.  It startles him to remember it.  He has not allowed himself to think of Ezriane for years.  

There is no reason for him not to accompany Arthur.  Arthur's worry about Saito's health can grow wearying, but he is a pleasant, intelligent companion, not prone to wasting Saito's time with trivia. 

"I will wait outside," he says. The crowded inn, the stink of too many unwashed bodies and rank, sweaty armor, makes him mildly uneasy.  

"I'll just be a moment," Arthur assures him, and clasps him warmly on the shoulder before turning to the barmaid to place his order. 

Outside, Saito stands next to the fountain and pulls off a hunk of bread.  He bites most of it off and chews methodically, breaking the remainder into crumbs between his fingers and tossing them to the fish in the low broad basin at the fountain's base.  He stares at their sinuous little bodies darting after the crumbs, and wonders what it is to be a fish.  Do fish think?  It seems as if it might be rather soothing, swimming round in circles in the clear water, going nowhere.  

Arthur joins him after just a few minutes, and again stares at him oddly.  "Thank you for waiting."

Saito swallows.  "But of course." 

Despite his apparent concern, and his stated desire for company, Arthur is silent for most of the walk back to the hall.  He pauses, though, before turning the final corner. Saito obligingly stops, and waits for whatever Arthur needs to tell him. 

"May I ask you something in confidence?" Arthur's voice is low, troubled. 

Saito nods. 

"Has Dom said anything to you that would make you believe he intends to push Eames out of the guild?" Arthur says bluntly, looking him directly in the eye. 

They both know why Arthur is asking.  The fact that Saito does not truly care about the guild interrelationships, and that he answers thoughtfully and candidly whatever he is asked, makes him an excellent resource for Dom to think out loud at (Saito is occasionally forced to shoo Dom away, when Dom has a bee in his bonnet about something and wants to hear himself talk).  This would not be the first time Arthur has come to Saito for some delicate back-channel information gathering.

Saito is just as candid with Arthur as he is with Dom, and moreover, he respects requests for confidentiality.  He could wreak merry havoc with the two of them if he ever took it into his mind to do so, but their trust is well-placed because he simply does not care enough to do so, and they both know that.

He thinks about his last several conversations with Dom, including a brief one yesterday that lasted only until Saito had the guards physically bar Dom from following him into the auction house. "He has expressed irritation with Eames perhaps more often than usual, during your most recent absence," he tells Arthur.  "However, he has not indicated a desire to actively push him into leaving.  I do not think it would be wise for him to attempt it," he adds, "unless he is willing to lose you as well.  And I would tell him so, if he asked."

Relief flickers quickly across Arthur's face, and an almost imperceptible tightness in his posture eases.  "Thank you," he says, and again clasps Saito's shoulder.  Then another thought seems to occur to him.  "I... just returned last night.  If you're here looking for sleep, you may find it in short supply for a few hours yet." 

Saito translates that internally -- _there will be loud fucking --_ and smiles.  "I am not disturbed by the sounds of your lovemaking," he assures Arthur.  "You are young, and living, and should delight in one another.  I will go into not-mind, where sound is divorced from meaning and merely washes through me without thought." 

Arthur's dark eyes flash silver as they probe Saito's.  "I'd like to speak with you more, about your state of mind, if you will allow me," he asks.  "I think you're feeling more disconnected from the world today, aren't you?" 

Saito shrugs.  "No more than usual," he lies.  "You worry needlessly, Arthur.  But we may speak more if you wish.  Although, after I have had some rest, please." 

If Arthur detects that Saito is humoring him, it doesn't seem to offend him.  "Thank you," Arthur says again, and they resume their walk to the guild hall. 

Inside, Arthur doesn't pause at the dining table, but takes his fragrant parcel of food -- spice bread and peaches, if Saito's nose is correct -- directly into the room he shares with Eames.  Saito can hear the low murmur of their voices together as he eats his solitary breakfast at the table and retires to his own room.  No-one else is up and about, or else their guildmates have all followed Ariadne's lead and fled the hall for the night; probably the latter, if experience is any guide. 

Arthur's warning was a valid one.  The quiet conversation in Eames' room breaks off soon enough into wordless gasps, and from there into moans and endearments, and then the howling (and hissing, and purring, and growling) starts.  Saito spoke the truth, though.  He lies on his bed in his solitary, monk-like room, and with relief he turns off his Saito-ness again, the part that would recognize and care, even a little bit, about the sounds he's hearing.  

It's not sleep.  Saito doesn't truly sleep, anymore, and hasn't since he died the first time.  But he increasingly needs to turn his mind off, and this is how he does it.  Some Death Knights need potions or even literal tombs to force themselves to rest and restore themselves.  He's lucky that he's able to do it this way, right in the middle of a busy city.  He'd learned the technique early on -- one of the Draenei priests who had helped to heal the broken and disoriented Death Knights after the Lich King's death had suggested it -- and thinks it's probably how he's managed to keep going when so many of his peers have flamed out and fully, finally destroyed themselves. 

While he can still find this waking oblivion, and as long as there are fish in the lakes and money to be made in trading, he thinks he can continue existing.  And -- who knows?  Perhaps Arthur can help find a way to ease his growing sense of disconnection and dissonance. 

Saito becomes not-mind, an organism without consciousness, his last thought that of relief at his loss of awareness.


	9. The Warlock (Remembering)

"I would do it if you ordered me, Mistress, but only then."  The succubus runs soothing fingers through Mal's wet hair, working up a frothy lather.  "He is too short and fat, and the Light still clings to him, though it is growing weaker.  Your Dom, on the other hand..."

"Dom is not for sharing," Mal says absently. She is lazing in the big wooden tub, immersed to the chin in steaming, fragrant water while Sapira washes her hair. 

"You should recruit more attractive men," Sapira complains in her rich, throaty contralto.  "Saito no longer engages in sex at all, and the other two are very sensual, but they desire only each other.  And I suspect Robert has an unnatural passion for his hunting cat." 

Mal chuckles at the thought.  She doesn't believe it for a minute -- Robert is far too straightlaced -- but it makes a comical picture.  "You would know about unnatural passions, _cherie_."

The demoness pours clean water over Mal's head, rinsing away the suds.  "Everything there is to know," she agrees.  "Shall I wash your back, Mistress?" 

"Not just now, my sweet.  Go, and I'll summon you later to help me dress." 

Sapira presses a cold kiss to Mal's forehead, and disappears, back to wherever it is that demons disappear to.  They have all tried to explain it at one time or another, but neither they nor her trainers have ever satisfactorily answered the question of where they go when they are not with her. 

Mal casts her underwater breathing spell and allows herself to relax fully into the hot water, closing her eyes.  She wouldn't order Sapira to sleep with Yusuf, even if the succubus didn't wrinkle her nose whenever she was near him.  She knows some warlocks do, but Mal's relationship with her minions is based on mutual respect rather than a binding.  She feels a tremendous affection for them, as well; they've been the only real constants in her shattered life, after all. 

Shallax had appeared when Mal was two years old.  At first, he was invisible to everyone else, and her parents had indulged what they thought were fanciful tales about an imaginary friend.  Within a few months, though, he had fully manifested, and their friends and neighbors drew away from the little girl with the sweet curls and big blue eyes and the hyperactive, flame-wreathed imp who accompanied her everywhere and left scorch marks on the furniture.

Dumos, an enormous, taciturn, indigo voidwalker, had appeared on her fourth birthday, delighting Mal and further alarming her parents.  Her first spells had come to her by then as well, and the villagers had prohibited her from practicing them within the village grounds or on anything living.  Mal spent a lot of time burning sticks into cinders and pouting. 

Her parents had been tradespeople in Kirin'Var Village on the plains of Farahlon.  Mal vaguely remembered running through low, grassy hills, the roughness of her father's beard and the softness of her mother's arms, and the way the air in their small stone house always smelled of baking bread.  When Ner'zhul fractured the planet, Farahlon had become Netherstorm, a haunted, broken region of howling mana storms, but Mal was already an inmate of the Shattrath orphanage by that time. 

The orcs had come upon their caravan as they made their semi-annual journey to Shattrath City for Mal's training.  Kirin'Var was too small to have a warlock trainer of its own, and it was simply too dangerous for a five-year-old child with such powerful gifts, and such unpredictable demons, to go untrained for too long.  Gryphon flights were expensive, and so they alternated overland journeys with flights, making one of each per year.  It was pure bad luck that this particular trip was by wagon. 

While the orcs nearest to Kirin'Var generally lived in peace with the inhabitants of the small village, the Laughing Skull clan -- inflamed by increasing Alliance incursions into traditional orcish lands -- had, unbeknownst to the caravan leader, declared war on any Alliance races unwary enough to enter their territories.  The poorly armed group of farmers and tradesmen was ripe for their depredations.

Mal remembered the screaming, most of all, and the blood that dripped through the slats of her parents' wagon to coat her as she cowered under it in silent shock, Shallax clinging miserably to her neck, Dumos hovering invisibly and anxiously next to her.  As much as he had wanted to fight, Mal had had enough training by that point to know it was useless -- he wasn't strong enough yet, and manifesting him would only have alerted the orcs to her existence -- and to exert her control over him.

A pair of goblin explorers picking through the carnage two days later to see if there was anything worth salvaging found a tiny, mute figure matted with dried blood, guarded by a raging voidwalker and with a frantic imp clutched tight in her arms.  She refused to speak or to feed herself, only taking a little water and shaking her head when they tried to ask her name and what had happened. 

The goblins, preoccupied with their work, wanted nothing to do with a near-catatonic human child and a pair of immature demons.  They had put her on a gryphon directly to Shattrath City, where she had been sent to the orphanage and force-fed until she had awoken enough to take nutrition on her own. 

Mal only knows this part because Shallax and Dumos had told her, later.  She doesn't remember any of it.

She had met Miles three years after that, as part of the yearly Children's Week exercise.  Mal was cynical enough already to sneer at the Children's Week volunteers, who ignored the orphans fifty-one weeks out of the year and who were so obviously pleased with themselves for giving scraps of their attention during this single week.  When she had explained this to Miles, he listened carefully and told her that, unfortunately, he agreed with her, and that he had been remiss in his own duty by not coming to the Shattrath orphanage earlier.  He put in a week every month, he explained, at the orphanages in Stormwind and Dalaran, as part of his practice of the Holy Light.

Mal had heard of the Holy Light before, and wanted nothing to do with it.  The orphans attended weekly services with clerics of the Light and were drilled in the tenets of its practice, but Mal (and many of the other orphans) couldn't reconcile a notion of "universal goodness" with what happened to her parents. There had been a cleric of the Light in her parents' caravan, and the orcs had cracked him open like an egg and eaten his beating heart.  If there was a Light, it wasn't any good at protecting people, and Mal wasn't going to waste her time thinking and praying about something that weak -- something she couldn't bring herself to believe in.

Dumos said that the Light was real, and that it had a smell, a high sweet tingling odor that the demons couldn't stand to be too close to.  It hung heavily around Miles, Shallax told her.  Mal couldn't smell it, or sense it in any other way, and that made her uneasy.  She wanted to believe it didn't exist at all, but her demons had never lied to her.

This didn't seem to bother Miles, though, any more than Mal's warlock nature or her ever-present demon companions did, and he had continued to visit several times a year, always taking time to talk with her and ask what new spells she had learned. 

He brought gifts -- fruits from Stranglethorn Vale, masks from the yearly Hallow's End celebrations, a mechanical squirrel that hopped up and down -- and told her about the places he'd seen in his travels, about his home on the faraway shores of Loch Modan, and the battles he had fought in as a Knight of the Silver Hand. As she grew older, he brought her books, and they discussed politics and world events, battle tactics, and what professions and travels Mal might take up when she eventually left the orphanage.

He always spoke of the Light, as well, but he didn't press her to profess her own belief or to follow his teachings.  That was all right.  He was the only person who spoke to Mal as if she had a brain in her head and didn't judge her, who let her talk back to him without scolding her.  She would listen if that's what he wanted. 

When Mal began menstruating at age 11, and the succubus Sapira manifested, Miles stared thoughtfully at the bat-winged demoness -- who leered at him -- but didn't discuss it with Mal.  Two weeks later, however, a tall, elegant Draenai woman appeared at the orphanage and asked to speak with Mal.  She said her name was Marie, and that Miles had sent her to see if Mal had any questions about what was happening to her body, and to teach her how to control the succubus. 

"The matrons told me what is happening, with the blood," Mal said warily.  "And Fel-Caller Guloto said he'll train Sapira in a few years." 

Marie tsked.  "You cannot have an uncontrollable succubus running around an orphanage, with teenaged boys present.  It is madness.  No, I am here to teach you how to become a woman, Mal, and how to use Sapira and not be dominated by her.  You are young and headstrong, but you are beginning to be beautiful, and a clever woman will use her beauty in addition to her raw power in order to get what she wants.  Let us begin now." 

Mal blossomed under the attention.  By the time Marie left, she had a good basic (theoretical) understanding of how relationships between adult men and women worked, how to protect herself if she was forcibly approached by a man, and how to dress and groom herself for a variety of different social situations.  She had also learned, and rigorously practiced, three spells for controlling and dismissing Sapira.  Marie promised to return periodically to expand on those lessons. 

When Miles returned the following month, Mal's unruly mop of hair had been tamed into an intricate braid, and her carelessly rumpled breeches and blouse had been replaced by a simple dark grey linen dress.  Her posture was straight and proud, and Shallax stood calmly at her side like an attendant instead of climbing her like a monkey, as was his habit.

"Why, you're a lady now!" Miles told her admiringly, and chastely kissed her proffered hand. 

"Thank you, kind sir," Mal said.  She smiled sweetly, as she had practiced with Marie, before abandoning her careful pose and flopping carelessly into a chair with Shallax on her lap, hopelessly wrinkling her new dress.  "Now, tell me what is happening in Kalimdor -- is it true, what they are saying of Deathwing?  That they are calling it the Second Sundering?" 

Miles and Marie continued to visit her, Miles regularly and Marie two or three times a year.  When Mal airily commented to Miles that she was having sex with one of the armor vendors in the Lower City, Marie appeared two days later and drilled her in the precautionary arts.  Miles was there for Mal to weep on when she discovered her lover was keeping three other mistresses, to act as Mal's second when she challenged her erstwhile partner to a duel, and to toast her victory afterward with a bottle of aged Dalaran red. 

When she was 16, she was declared an adult and released from the orphanage.  Miles was there, waiting for her. 

"Have you thought about where you would like to go?" he asked her.  "I can't travel with you for long, but I can show you how the mage portals and ships function, and accompany you on your first gryphon flight to wherever you want to start your exploration." 

"Dalaran," she said immediately.  "I want to go to the trainer there for specialized training in demonology.  And then, I want to simply travel in the Eastern Kingdoms -- see all of the cities and lands I have read about, and hone my skills and earn some gold for myself.  You are very kind, of course, but I must make my own way." 

He chuckled.  "I expect nothing less, but I'll give you a nest egg to start with.  Mal, you know I would've adopted you and had you travel with me if I had been permitted by my order, don't you?" 

"Of course you could not have adopted a young girl," she said knowingly, and then with a trace of bitterness:  "Or a warlock.  I am hardly a fit companion for a paladin of the Light." 

Miles smiled sadly.  "Just so.  But I'll always see you as a daughter, nonetheless."

The world beyond Shattrath City had unfolded for her then, a rich tapestry of rushing rivers and ancient forests and bustling cities, wild jungles and gloomy crypts.  Mal thrived on the dizzying newness of everything around her.  She prowled through the verdant mountains of Feralas, galloped across the arid wastes of the Badlands, nearly froze to death in the icy peaks of Howling Fjord, and marveled at the naga ruins fathoms beneath the ocean's surface in Vashj'ir. 

And she fought:  duels and battlegrounds and dungeons, for fun and for profit, against goblin rogues and tauren warriors and the priestesses of Elune, against dwarven hunters and undead mages and worgen druids; against pirates and knights and malevolent spirits, against the demons of the Burning Legion and the crazed mechanical creations in the abandoned city of Gnomeregan.  The tiny child who had crouched, shaking and speechless and covered in blood under that wagon half of her lifetime ago, grew into a fierce, elegant, deadly creature, her eyes predatory and oddly deadened, her slender figure sparking with felfire. She felt alive and in control in the heat of battle, confident and in possession of herself and connected in a way that she never felt otherwise.

For years, she floated through Azeroth society without being truly of it, close to no-one except Miles.  She didn't need to be -- she had her companions, her minions, to scout her path and defend her and comfort her: Shallax to sit on her shoulder and murmur in her ear, the felhunter Mekotra to curl in bed with at night, huge Dumos and the brutish felguard Phoros to scowl menacingly at anyone who dared approach her, Sapira to bathe and dress her and whisper secrets with. 

Mal had lovers aplenty, men and a few women, but none who she wanted to spend more than a night or two with.  She simply didn't need them.

Until Dom.  Dom with his curious blend of naivete and arrogance, the way he worshiped and then mocked her, adored her and scolded her, how he unhesitatingly controlled and commanded the guild but then stooped and scraped to obey her most outlandish orders.  It beguiled her, something about him drawing her back and back and back, his personality meshing into hers no matter how long or hard she fought it. 

Dom is not happy, right now.  He hasn't been for some weeks, now, since just after Arthur left for Mount Hyjal.  His temper has been shorter than usual, and they have all borne the brunt of it.  As best she can tell, it seems to be connected primarily to Eames. 

Mal sits up straight in the tub and expels the water from her lungs, pushing her wet hair back from her face, and thinks. 

She rather likes Eames, herself.  He is intelligent and extremely competent, both of which go a very long way in Mal's book; she cannot abide idiocy or bumbling.  He has a dark, mocking sense of humor much like her own, and he has provided an unexpected sympathetic ear on many occasions when Mal is simply too exasperated with Dom to think clearly.  He makes Arthur happy, and a happy Arthur means a smoothly functioning, prosperous guild.  It also means that Dom has more free time to devote to pleasing Mal. 

Mal is very practical, at heart.

Dom wants Eames gone, though, and Mal doesn't know what to do about that. She does not think Eames' behavior has changed much, if at all.  He does tend to be easily bored and prone to disruption when Arthur has been away for a long time, and his tendency toward the whimsical, which mostly amuses Mal and Ariadne and Yusuf, makes Dom fume. 

In short, she really doesn't know what might be setting Dom off.  He doesn't often talk to her about 'guild business,' saving that for Arthur.  But of course, he wouldn't discuss this with Arthur.  Dom is scared to death that Arthur will leave if Eames does, and then Dom's admirable, enviable little guild would lose much of its cachet.  There must be a way to make it happen, though, and then Dom will be content again, and less waspish and snippy with her. 

Yusuf's information had been tantalizing, but on thinking it through, the only thing a love potion would accomplish is getting Ariadne laid.  They wear off, after all, and Arthur would only go after Eames again and nothing would really change.  She regretfully dismisses the notion from her mind. 

Perhaps she should ask Dom to forbid Arthur from leaving again?  If Arthur stays, Eames might behave himself. Or they might quarrel.  They can hardly quarrel if Arthur is not there, so Arthur must be made to stay put.  She makes a mental note to try to provoke conflict between the two of them.  Maybe Yusuf has some more thoughts she can use along those lines. 

Mal shivers, suddenly realizing that the water has cooled significantly while she has been remembering and thinking.  She stands and sluices herself with clean water, and summons Dumos to empty the heavy tub while she dries herself before the fire in the bathing room.  Dom should be back from his devotions (or networking/politicking sessions) at the Cathedral of Light soon, and she thinks she knows a way to soothe him -- at least temporarily -- while she works on this intriguing problem of getting rid of Eames. 


	10. The Priest (Searching)

"I wouldn't even know where to start, Arthur," Yusuf objects.  "I can heal physical injuries.  The kind of spiritual damage you're talking about -- I was never taught how to look for it, much less repair it!  And we have no way of knowing whether the power you're drawing from the Emerald Dream is compatible with the Light.  We've only overlapped spells before, not tried to mesh them."  He continues rhythmically rolling and grinding the silverleaf plant down into the pestle in front of him, extracting the mana-restoring juice from the leaves and silently willing Arthur to leave him alone. 

Arthur's dark, anxious eyes drill into Yusuf's, and his deep voice is a shade too measured when he replies.  "We live less than 500 feet from the Cathedral of Light, Yusuf.  The continent's most pre-eminent priest trainers are in there, not to mention the Cathedral's library.  Surely this is worth putting some time into, for the sake of a guildmate who's suffering."

Yusuf can't -- well, won't -- tell Arthur the real reasons for his reluctance to approach the priests in the Cathedral.  He's halfway surprised that Arthur himself can't detect the dimming and flickering of the power of the Light within him.  He's not ready to face the consequences of his trainers probing into why that's happening.  Mal had nixed the shadowpriest idea pretty decisively, and Yusuf doesn't have any other alternatives in mind just yet.

Damn Arthur and his touchy-feely do-gooderism, anyway.  Saito's been getting along perfectly well with this spiritual or emotional malaise all these years, hasn't he?  He's making them money, and he doesn't intrude or demand guild resources or attention; he shows up for raids, he's a competent tank, he's probably _fine_.  There's no reason for Arthur to get a bug up his furry little ass about it right now. 

But Yusuf only smiles pleasantly and nods as he measures out the clear green extract into a flask.  "I'll talk to the librarian this afternoon," he promises. "And the alchemists as well; there may be a potion they can recommend."

The lines of concern and stubbornness in Arthur's face, which had been steadily deepening during this conversation, ease.  "Thank you," he says earnestly, and stands, pushing an errant strand of hair behind one of his pointed ears.  "Eames and I will see what we can find in the Royal Library." 

"I didn't know Eames was a scholar," Yusuf comments, raising an eyebrow. 

Arthur chuckles.  "Eames has hidden virtues."  He turns to leave the room, then pauses.  "Let's discuss your findings after dinner." It's polite, but Arthur is the second-in-command of this guild, and it's unambiguously an order.

Arthur leaves the door ajar behind him when he goes, and Yusuf can hear him in the greatroom asking Dom if he's ready to plan the Shadowfang Keep raid yet.  He mechanically rinses his mortar and pestle and sets the full flask to heat over a low flame while he mentally runs through his options.

As a healer, he really should begin by examining Saito himself.  The problem is that Yusuf doesn't know anything at all about spiritual damage; none of his training has ever alluded to it, and it's never come up in conversations, casual or professional, with other priests.  Arthur seems sure about what he sees and about the fact that it can be remedied, but Yusuf is completely at sea here. 

In his experience, people who sustain serious mental or emotional harm usually just disappear after a while, either through premeditation or lethal carelessness.  They don't hang around bemoaning their state and asking other people to do hours of research and reveal their own private crises of faith to their superiors in order to try to fix them. 

Well, all right, that's not completely fair to Saito.  He's not the one asking Yusuf to step outside his comfort zone.  That's all Arthur the noble, Arthur-the-inconveniently-compassionate. 

Yusuf sighs gustily, takes the flask off the heat and sets it aside to cool.  He surveys the neat rows of labeled jars and bags on the herb shelves, making a mental note to put in an order for more earthroot when he talks to Saito.

"I heard that, you know."  A heavy hand falls on Yusuf's shoulder, and he jumps; he had neither heard nor seen Eames enter the room, but suddenly there he is, looming over the workbench in that still, smiling, predatory way he has.  Arthur and Dom are both taller than Eames, and everybody (except Ariadne) is taller than Yusuf, but nobody else  _looms_  like Eames can.  

"Heard what?" Yusuf retorts.  "That puppies are usually illiterate?"  It's rude, but he's nervous, suddenly.

Eames only winks at him and says, " _Wuff_."  He doesn't remove his hand from Yusuf's shoulder, or say anything else.

There is a long silence.  

"I should be heading over to the Cathedral library," Yusuf suggests.

"Indeed," Eames agrees.  He drops his hand, but doesn't back away; he is studying Yusuf's face.

"What do you want, Eames?" 

Eames tilts his head slightly, still looking into or maybe through Yusuf, then shrugs.  "Anything you'd like to chat about?" 

There is nothing at all that Yusuf wants to discuss with Eames right now.  He specifically does not want to chat about what, if anything, Arthur had overheard the previous evening between him and Mal.  "Nothing comes to mind."  

"Nothing rattling around in there but thoughts of beautiful women, hmm?"  Eames finally backs off, but not after tapping Yusuf's forehead significantly.  

"Beautiful women take up a lot of room," Yusuf says nonsensically, and escapes.  

He trots past Dom and Arthur in the greatroom with a hurried wave and nod, and is out the door of the guild hall before he recalls that he doesn't know exactly what he's looking for.  His steps slow as he thinks over what Arthur had said.  Meshing the power of the Light and the Emerald Dream -- is it even possible?  That would be a good place to start.  

He can talk directly to Saito later to find out what he's experiencing.  It's probably no use, but he can tell Arthur he did what he was asked and then hopefully be done with this whole lost cause. 

Having long practiced the art of being unobtrusive, Yusuf avoids the richly carpeted main entrance and towering main hall of the Cathedral, which present a minefield of his superiors and former instructors, and enters instead through a little-used side vault that connects directly to the staircase down to the basement library.  He'd discovered this route when he was near the end of his training, anxious for some respite from the solemnity and grandeur of the Cathedral and the watchful eyes of the priest trainers.

It's dimly lit and slightly chill in the basement, smelling of dust and old leather and stone, and just a trace of the incense they burn upstairs during services.  It's a familiar scent, and he breathes it in deeply, soothed.  He's always loved the library down here -- the hush of it, and the sense of delicious possibility waiting in all of the old scrolls and codices.  You could read for years and not make a dent in the collection here.  

There are a few other scholars who have staked out a space at the long wooden tables or in the ancient study carrels between the stacks, but not many.  The faint scratching of quills, his own muffled footsteps, and a faraway echo of the hymns being sung upstairs are the only sounds.  

Whatever his failings may be as a priest and as a man, Yusuf knows how to tackle an academic problem.  He nods at Brother Dravid, the librarian, but eschews small talk, settling directly into an empty carrel, lighting an extra candle, and pulling an inkwell and a sheet of parchment toward him at once.  Starting with the prime topic of meshing the Light with the Emerald Dream, he swiftly assembles sub-topics and branching theories, jotting questions and half-recalled titles in the margins.

Once an outline is completed in his cramped but neat handwriting, he motions to Brother Dravid for assistance in retrieving the texts he needs. Over the next hour, between the two of them, they assemble a formidable stack of tomes and scrolls.  

Yusuf readies a fresh sheet of parchment for notes, checks the level of ink remaining in the bottle, and settles down to business.  To refresh his grasp of the proper terminology, he starts with the basics for each discipline -- "A Scholar's View of the Light," and "The World Tree and the Emerald Dream" -- before delving into more esoteric lore:   _Mount Hyjal and Illidan's Gift,_ a history of Horatio Montgomery, M.D., _Preceptors o_ _f the Light, Mapping the Emerald Dream,_  and the venerable _Healer's_ _Workbook._ As he reads, he makes notes of other titles that may be applicable to Saito's condition in general.   _Guide to the Side Effects of Reanimation --_ _One Truth in Undeath --_ _The Decree of the Scourge_.  

It's several hours, and several sheets of parchment, later before Yusuf closes the last book, replaces the quill in the inkwell, and massages the cramps out of his stiffened right hand, almost absentmindedly directing a mild healing spell into the aching extremity.  He skims back over his summary, spent but satisfied.  He has an answer to at least part of the question, and promising leads on the rest.

He trots back up the side stairwell, welcoming the relative warmth of the Cathedral's ancillary vaults after the stony chill of the Library, and slips out the same side door he'd come in through.  He seems to have escaped detection by anyone other than Brother Dravid, who is indifferent to crises of faith and only cares about his collection. 

Yusuf allows himself to feel relief, and then stuffs the whole dilemma of the loss of Light back into a far corner of his brain where it won't gnaw at him for some hours.  

Back at the guild hall, he motions for Arthur to join him in the workroom, and collapses into one of the heavy oak chairs there.  Arthur rises gracefully and follows.  

Before Arthur can close the door, Eames trails in after them, uninvited, and heaves himself up to sit on the battered work table, his expression noncommittal.  It gives him an exaggerated height advantage and will force Yusuf to crane his neck to meet Eames' eyes; this is a favorite trick of his, and it irritates Yusuf every time.

But Yusuf ignores him.  The novelty of the topic and the intellectual adrenaline rush of the research have animated him, and in his enthusiasm, he's all but forgotten that he's annoyed with Arthur at bringing the topic up in the first place. 

"There is precedent for a combined healing!" he announces as soon as Arthur is seated. 

Arthur sits up straight and looks swiftly at Eames, then at Yusuf, clearly pleased. 

"...Well, sort of," Yusuf amends.

"How can there be 'sort of' precedent?  It's either been done or not done," Eames objects.  Arthur places a quieting hand on his knee.  

"Go on," he encourages Yusuf.

"It was a merged healing between a druid and a paladin -- although not of a Death Knight, and it was of a long-standing physical illness, not a spiritual one.  And you would have to be the primary channel, not me.  You know that the touch of the Light is painful to Saito..."

Arthur (and, to Yusuf's surprise, Eames) nods.  "I was concerned about that." 

"So, Chronicler To'Kin wrote that while Malfurion slept in the Barrow Dens, before the Third War, a paladin of Kul Tiras and a Druid of the Fang were able to cure a dwarf hunter who contracted Corrupted Blood, by taking her bodily into the Dream and conducting the healing there.  He doesn't say _how_ they meshed the spells, but they did mesh them, and they were somehow able to burn the disease out of her without killing her."  

Arthur looks thoughtful.  "I can see that working with a disease of the body.  Meshing a spell for cauterizing with a spell for renewal -- you'd have to be very precise about the balance of harm and healing, and it could be a lengthy process, but it seems feasible.  I don't know how to apply that to what Saito is suffering from, though."

"Not to mention, if the heat originated in the Light, it would wreak havoc with the lich spells that sustain his body. He's not too physically robust as it is, since he won't eat flesh anymore," Eames points out, unexpectedly.   

"What do you know about it?" Yusuf demands.  

"Eames spent the whole afternoon with me in the Royal Library," Arthur tells him, warningly.  "He reviewed everything we could find about healing the undead, and about the spells the Lich King cast on death knights."  

Eames mockingly  _wuffs_ at Yusuf again, looking amused.  

Yusuf, chagrined, backs down.  "All right.  Fine.  So what did  _you_ find?"

Arthur and Eames look quickly at each other, and then Arthur leans back slightly in his chair, ceding the floor to Eames. Eames absently scratches his ear, collecting his thoughts, and begins.  

"The Royal Library has an excellent collection of texts regarding the undead, and Arthas' spells, including some original texts by Tirion Fordring himself. There's even commentary by Thrall.  I don't know a great deal about shamanistic traditions, but between Thrall and the documentation by the Argent Crusade, there's a solid body of work regarding the emotional and mental state of a death knight of Saito's age and background.  There's also an oral history of the death knights of Acherus, edited by Darion Morgraine, and it includes several accounts of this kind of ... spiritual malaise." 

Yusuf is intrigued despite himself.  "Were they able to cure it?" 

"There aren't any records of a cure," Eames admits reluctantly.  "Just detailed descriptions of how it progresses.  It seems there's a suicide ritual some of the death knights implement when it reaches a terminal point."  

"That doesn't really help us figure out how to fix it," Yusuf points out.

Arthur shakes his head in disagreement, a lock of his dark hair falling forward over his cheek.  He tucks it behind his ear impatiently.  "Knowing the progress of the disease tells us a lot about how to treat it.  We'll know what doesn't work.  That's half the information we need to find out what _does_."

"I'm not a doctor," Yusuf reminds him, "I'm a priest.  I'm trained to call on the Light to keep our people alive in battle, not to make encouraging faces and pat hands and say 'there, there' to the bedridden." 

Eames crosses his arms, regarding Yusuf from his perch on the work table with both physical and evident moral superiority.  "One wonders why a priest of the Light is so reluctant to invoke it in the service of someone who is suffering.  Don't you people take vows to heal the sick and succor the downtrodden?" 

"Ha ha bloody ha," Yusuf responds sourly.  "Lectured about piety by a professional thief and assassin."  

Arthur intercedes smoothly.  "This isn't about morality.  Right now, it's just about possibility.  This is a good start, but we all need more information, and I need to talk to Saito.  Eames, will you give Yusuf the oral history so he can go through it firsthand?"

Certainly Eames will, if it's Arthur asking.  

Arthur doesn't even wait for his agreement before turning back to Yusuf.  "And Yusuf -- if you'll give me your notes, I'll have them replicated by the scribes.  I'd like to take a look at..." 

Heavy steps sound just outside the workroom door, and Arthur abruptly stills.  The oaken door swings outward, revealing the broad-shouldered form of Dom.  He appears freshly bathed, though not shaved; his hair is unusually sleek and his face is rosy with warmth.  His dark gray woolen shirt hangs loose over his green laced leather breeches, and his feet are bare.  

Dom takes in the room in one look, nods a greeting, and settles himself comfortably into another of the sturdy wooden chairs.  It doesn't seem to have occurred to him that he might be interrupting anything.   _Classic Dom_ , Yusuf thinks, half-aggravated and half-admiring. 

"Well, I'm starving!" Dom says cheerfully. "Spent a couple of hours training in defensive stances with Ander Germaine this afternoon and he ran me ragged.  Yusuf, when is dinner?  "  

"There is no dinner," Eames informs him, a trifle smugly. 

Dom is aggrieved.  "But -- I thought you were making the Whitecrest Gumbo today.  I've been looking forward to it for hours."

"I spent my day in the Cathedral," Yusuf says piously, and Dom immediately backs off, his squinty eyes widening with respect. 

"Oh, of course, of course," he amends hastily.  "Well, then..."  His face brightens again.  "What do you say to a night out, just us fellows?  Ariadne and Mal are visiting Miles in Dalaran tonight.  The Pig 'n' Whistle just received a shipment of Bartlett's Bitter.  First round is on me!"   

To Yusuf's dismay, Arthur shakes his head politely.  "I'm afraid Eames and I have an intimate evening planned together in celebration of the Lunar Festival.  We have a meal waiting in our room, and there are certain sex rites associated with the phase of the moon that will occupy us for the next several hours."  His voice and expression are tranquil, but the look he exchanges with Eames is filled with heat.  

"You blokes should go, though," Eames says brightly, as Dom flinches.  "See what confidences come out when you're both well in your cups."  

"You might want to stay out for a while," Arthur adds, matter-of-fact.  "If the noise bothers you."   

Dom holds up a hand and stands up, cutting off any further oversharing of information.  "I appreciate the warning.  Do... uh, what you need to do.  Yusuf?  All I need are my boots -- are you ready now?"  

Yusuf nods slowly, unable to think of a way out of this forced _bonhomie_.  "Aye.  Let me find my cloak first, though."

Dom beams benignly at them all and bounds out of the room.   

Arthur stands and holds out his hand to Eames, who slips off the table and pats Yusuf on the head mockingly before catching Arthur's hand and snugging himself under Arthur's arm, raising Arthur's long slender fingers to his lips.  Arthur draws him close and raises a silent but expressive eyebrow at Yusuf.

They've trapped him as neatly as if they'd planned it ahead of time.  And who knows if it's even Lunar Festival right now?  Yusuf never pays attention to that pagan crap.  Although knowing Arthur, it most likely is, and there probably _are_ sex rites associated with it.  The Kaldorei have sex rites for just about every holiday under the moons.  

Yusuf glares, rakes his fingers through his curls to put them back in order, and stomps out before their display of affection becomes any more graphic.  

If nothing else, he'll get good and drunk on Dom's dime tonight.  


End file.
